


Telling You Why (Better Watch Out!)

by milkandhoney



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 25 Days of Draco and Harry 2018, Advent Fic, Angst, Animate Objects, Bickering, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Tree, Comedy, Curses, First Time, Forced Proximity (sort of), Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Involuntary Acts of Kindness, Involuntary Acts of Not-so Kindness, M/M, Magical Theory, Muggle Studies: Christmas Edition, Mystery, POV Draco Malfoy, Post-War, Pranks, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Sexual Inexperience, Slow Burn, Smut, Sorting Hats, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Weasley Jumpers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-05 06:17:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 33,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16805113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkandhoney/pseuds/milkandhoney
Summary: Not many people realize Father Christmas has a sorting hat of his own. Why would they? He's the only one who uses it, and only once a year. Draco Malfoy just wants to get through his Eighth Year. He doesn't want to think about Christmas or how Muggles celebrate it, and he certainly doesn't want to think about why Harry Potter won't leave him alone.





	1. / a lovely trip along the milky way /

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 25 Days of Draco and Harry (2018), based on 25 photo prompts. Thanks to the mods for organizing this challenge - I'm looking forward to reading everyone's entries (if I can keep up with my own💦)! 
> 
> All rights belong to JK Rowling etc.  
> If any kind soul with a heart full of Drarry goodness is willing to beta, please drop me a DM here or on [tumblr](http://fictional.tumblr.com).

Prompt: 

The scratching of nibs on parchment ebbs and flows, a gentle rhythm broken occasionally by soft laughter or the hollow thud of a book split wide against the hard surface of a desk. Madam Pince skulks the aisles, her sharp *tut* of disapproval following the noises without fail, or any sound above a whisper.

Draco's quill moves so fast, his hand can barely keep up. He bends low over his work, sweeping aside the loose strands of hair that brush his cheek, and wills his arm, under threat of every deity he’s ever come across, to steady.

Despite what the hacks at _Spellbound!_ have to say, the Mercury model is not the most dutiful and professional quill on the wizarding market. It is an absolute menace. It yanks the tail end of Draco’s g’s and un-dots _all_ his i’s, zipping across the parchment to strike entire paragraphs of it’s own volition.

Draco scowls, applying more pressure. He ought to have recalibrated the damned thing weeks ago, but that meant a trip into Diagon Alley, and as far as he was concerned, Diagon Alley remained off-limits.

From the corner of his eye, he spies a quill inching towards his inkpot. Frowning, Draco slides the bottle just out of Parvati’s reach.

“Oh come on, Malfoy!” Parvati pleads, quickly lowering her voice at the approaching _click-clack_ of heels. “I’ve nearly finished my essay and if I don’t do it now, I’ll never get to my Charms work.”

“The only charms work you’ve planned is Anthony Goldstein,” sniffs Draco, curling his lip. “I hardly think that’s worth half a bottle of _Dalston’s_.”

“But it’s worth a working quill, isn’t it?” Parvati procures one from her bag, a gaudy, purple affair that promises sweet nothings and sneezing fits as she waves it under his nose. “Yours is a mess and I _know_ you don’t have another.”

“I haven’t the vaguest idea what you’re on about.” The Mercury quill happily makes ribbons of his Runes essay in an attempt to cross several ’Ts’ at once. “You must think I’m desperate.”

Rather than answer, Parvati leans forward and sticks her finger through the middle of Draco’s scroll.

“You,” He grunts, swiping the purple monstrosity from her hand, “are spending too much time with Pansy.”

On the other side of the table, Pansy looks up from last month’s _Witch Weekly_ to shakes her head. “There’s no such thing. The last year has made us fast friends and Parvati finds me perfectly lovely to be around. So much so that we’re spending Winter hols together, aren’t we?”

“I said I’d _like_ to,” Parvati corrects, her olive skin flushing prettily. “Padma hasn’t decided what she wants to do and it’s likely to be our only chance to see each other now that she’s on the continent.”

“So bring her along,” says Pansy, waving a flippant hand. “We’re not going to _my_ home if that’s what she’s afraid of. My mum and Greg the Muggle™, have a place in Islington that is perfectly on the up and up.” She rolls her eyes. “Goodness, I thought Ravenclaws were supposed to be the smart ones.”

“And Gryffindors are the braves ones. So you can see the complication,” says Parvati.

Draco snorts. “The pompous, stubborn, fool-hardy ones, you mean.”

“If you’re referring to one Gryffindor in particular, it had better not be me.”

“Oh I think we all know who Malfoy is referring to,” Blaise drawls, somehow both mocking and fond. “He’s only been glancing at this table every five minutes.”

Draco feels his face heat. “It’s a symptom of habit,” He refuses to turn around, suffering Pansy and Blaise’s knowing looks instead. “Potter spent an entire year playing my warden while we repaired the castle and now it’s a nervous tick. If he doesn’t see someone about it, it’s likely to continue the rest of my life.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” quips Parvati, taking a generous dunk of ink. Draco mentally adds her name to the small list of obnoxious people in his life. It’s also the list of people in his life at all.

“Well, tell Padma if she doesn’t favor Pansy’s, she’s welcome to stay at mine,” Blaise winks, settling back. “Bit low on bed space though, so we’d have to share.”

“You’re a pig,” Pansy scowls, though her words hold no real bite. “I swear I don’t know who’s worse, you or that succubus that spawned you.” Pansy’s turns back to Parvati, who wears a solemn expression. “I could write her if you’d like?” Pansy offers softly, her voice gentling as she reaches across the table to place a hand over Parvati’s. “I wouldn’t mind, you know. I don’t want you to be alone.”

Shaking her head, Parvati slips her hand back. Curls it into the sleeve of her robes. She clears her throat. “We’ll talk about it later.” Her eyes dart to Draco with something like guilt, before turning back to Pansy. “So, about this Greg. How does your mum plan to get around the statute on _holiday_?”

Relieved, Draco allows the others to continue discussing their plans and attempts to slip back to the relative safety of his essay. He’s determined to avoid the topic of Christmas altogether and Parvati’s hapless reminder leaves something sour in his chest.

Outside the tall, thin windows, the weather is frightful for early December — snow coming down so thick that even the best owl would be waylaid by it. It’s a perfectly reasonable excuse as to why his mother has yet to communicate any definite plans. Last year’s celebrations hadn’t exactly left them in the mood for a repeat.

Ernie McMillan gently knocks his shoulder against Draco’s, rousing him from his reverie. “Alright, Malfoy?” He nods and Ernie nods back, satisfied. He flashes Draco a conspiratorial grin. “Listen to them go on, then.” He indicates the others. “Three more weeks and they’re scheduling shag appointments.”

Blaise overhears them, propping an arm on the back of his chair. “And what are you doing then, McMillan, if it’s so boring to you? Trip to the moon?”

“Oh yeah,” Ernie lilts. “With your mum. She told me to let you know that you’re staying home for the hols, and I forgot. Sorry mate. But we’ll have a good view of Uranus from up there.”

Mean laughter breaks out across the table as Draco ignores it. Madam Pince will swoop down on them soon enough. The thought of cancelled plans and holidays spent alone aren’t all that funny to him at the moment.

“Piss off,” say Blaise. There’s no winsome smile now, just teeth. “I suppose you think that’s funny.”

“It was, a bit.” Draco instantly realizes his mistake. Blaise’s eyes flash, and in that moment the target of his vitriol switches.

“And how about you, Draco?” Blaise asks, as if he and everyone else at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Misery couldn’t already guess. “Any plans yet? I hear traveling alone can be quite rewarding. Sailing, perhaps. There’s one island in particular I know you’d just _love_ to visit.”

Several people wince as Draco shoots up from his chair, the legs making an unpleasant screech. “Book,” he grounds out, holding himself erect until he turns a corner, walks several feet and sags.

Unfurling his fist, Draco grimaces. He’s still holding Parvati’s monstrous quill, the shaft snapped a third of the way down.

He tosses it in disgust, shaking his head when footsteps come to a stop behind him. Draco really ought to have known. He’d probably watched the whole thing like some vigilante voyeur.

“Potter.”


	2. / they're gonna build /

Prompt: 

“Malfoy.” 

Potter doesn’t look like he should be forcing revision in the library, much less standing on two feet. There are dark smudges under his eyes and his face looks wan. The twinge of sympathy it elicits in Draco is completely unwelcome.

Fatigue does nothing to dissuade anyone from finding Potter handsome. It just changes the type of handsome, enhancing other features of his face to distract from the ones that dim his usual brilliance.

If one were to like that sort of thing.

“You’re looking _healthy,_ ” Draco says, turning away to walk the length of the aisle. “Rebelling against the dangers of regular sleep or defending your right to insomnia?”

“I sleep enough,” Potter snaps with the kind of subtly that confirms he’d have been eaten alive in Slytherin.“It’s the change in weather. This time of year isn’t my favorite.”

Just because they share the sentiment doesn’t mean Draco has to tell him as much. “So no cause of the week? You’re usually self-righteous about something.”

Potter frowns but doesn’t argue the point, hands buried deep in the pocket of his robes. The intensity of his stare is unnerving. It gives Draco the distinct impression that Potter feels entitled to something.

When it becomes apparent he isn’t planning to leave, Draco does the one thing he’s tried with varying success: ignores him. He’s been doing a good job of it since September, careful to never closely examine the reasons distance suddenly became necessary. What Draco knows is that he needs a book before he can head back to the table, and he needs to his his essay.

Focusing his magic in order to ignore Potter’s, Draco takes a deep breath, trailing his fingers along the shelves. Every book in his path hastily moves to crowd amongst themselves, going so far as to rearrange the letters on their spines, despite his stasis incantation. Draco drops his hand. The titles are now all indecipherable gibberish. He’s still not fast enough.

“Why not use your wand?” Potter asks, pushy as ever. He doesn’t appear surprised in the slightest to see Draco cast without one, despite asking. “The new one,” he clarifies like a total berk.

“This is easier.”

“It’s not working.”

“Figured that out, did you?” Draco sneers, gritting his teeth. He’d like to start from the other end this time, but suspects the results will be much the same if Potter doesn’t stop hovering. “I’ll be done in a moment if you’d like to go.” The dismissal is as polite as Draco can muster, given that they both know he’ll refuse it.

True to form, Potter steps further into the aisle. Responding to his movement, several books slide towards him in an attempt to gain attention. “You didn’t mention they were still doing that.”

“Doing what?” Draco crosses his arms. “Sitting on these shelves? Existing?”

“You know what,” Potter says, visibly annoyed. Good. It make two of them.

Draco lifts a careless shoulder. “Does it matter? It’s errant magic. Thought I’d try my hand at something new, and as you can see, it was both unsuccessful _and_ inconvenient. Satisfied?”

Instead of answering, Potter grips his wand and points it at him. Draco feels the warm pulse of Potter’s magic, shivering involuntarily as it slides like a caress down his back, spreads radial heat through his groin. Behind him, the bookshelf ripples until the engraved lettering of each book shines golden and pristine.

Hands trembling, Draco grabs one at random and leafs through it, eyes moving unseeingly over the page.

“You’re welcome.”

Draco snorts, but doesn’t look up. “For what. Giving you another opportunity to show off?”

“Malfoy.”

“How does it feel?” Draco asks, cutting him off.

“Feel?” Potter’s confusion is tangible as he shifts his weight. “What do you mean?” 

“How does it feel? Seeking the attention of someone who wants nothing to do with you. It must be quite a shock.” The stricken expression on Potter’s face makes Draco feel like Christmas has arrived early. It almost makes up for Blaise’s harsh words and the reminder that The Manor offers no relief.

“Move along, Potter,” Draco sighs, suddenly as tired as he looks. “Surely you have better places to stick you nose than up my arse.”

Color floods Potter’s face.“I was just trying to—! ”

“Help?” Draco arches a fine brow. “Have a friendly chat? We are not friends, Potter. At this point we are _barely_ acquaintances and I’d say I’ve made a concentrated effort just to achieve that consolation prize.” He keeps his tone light, relishing the way Potter’s eyes narrow at his words, feeling the twist in his gut.

“This is what you call effort?” Potter scoffs. “I saved your _life_ , Malfoy. Spoke at your trial. I suppose you think you deserve something better than freedom.”

There are several loud thuds, a rush of something white hot as Draco looks down to find his finger digging into Potter’s chest,the features of his face all too close to be in focus. “What I have is _not_ freedom and don’t you _fucking_ suggest otherwise,” Draco spits, trembling with rage. “I may not be in Azkaban, but I am _very much_ behind bars and I have _you_ to thank for that.”

Staring into Potter’s face is what Draco imagines it’s like to enter the mouth of a lion. He’s a serpent, a beast — every creature unhinging it’s maw wide enough to fill their prey with deadly calm before their jaws snap shut. Unwavering survival versus inevitable destruction. Potter lifts his chin.

“You’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly glad to push past that, even if it was necessary to the plot.  
> Next chapter is where our Christmas magic begins..!


	3. / naughty and nice /

Prompt: 

Draco tilts his head and feels his neck click.

He’d slept terribly last night. Too agitated to finish his work and too embarrassed to return to the library, he’d confined himself to a drafty alcove on the fifth floor that overlooked the forest.

The fresh snow had glittered in the darkness, crystalline like stars, and Draco spent the evening admiring them both, tracing the constellations he knew by heart with his wand as he waited for dinner to be over. It was hours before Peeves stumbled across him, fleeing a run-in with the Baron, and chased him with shrieking laughter back to the Dungeons.

In bed, it was even worse. Draco had lain wide awake, alone with his thoughts and resentful of the bright green that glittered angrily before him whenever he tried to close his eyes. Desperation had him casting a silencing charm in order to pull himself off -- a method he knew to be quite effective -- except the thought that those eyes and the urge to wank could in _any way_ be related, stubbornly brought Draco’s hands atop the duvet until morning.

He stifles a yawn. The cold stings his cheeks as he steps onto the grounds. He can only hope it will keep him awake long enough to make it through Muggle Studies.

Walking along the perimeter of the Herbology greenhouses, Draco stares at the newly decorated evergreens. There’s another tree up ahead, bigger and grander than the rest, standing in the clearing where the eighth years are gathered. His eyes instantly find Potter, flanked by Weasley and Granger as they admire the tree, and Draco passes behind them, pretending to admire the lights.

Apparently muggles have fairy lights too, but he finds the name wildly misleading. There are no actual fairies involved like he’s used to, but multi-colored bulbs that blink, powered by something called electricity. Draco’s not sure how Professor Hangingbone’s managed to make any of it work at Hogwarts, but he suspects complicated charms work is involved.

“Don’t bother.” Draco starts as Ernie draws up beside him, shaking the slush from his boots. “I’ve already tried asking how they work. She won’t let anyone get near the stuff.” Ernie points, and Draco follows his gaze to the long, green cords that disappear into a supply shed.

He shakes his head. “Sprout’s going to box her ears if she keeps that up.”

“I think they’ve finally reached some kind of agreement. Hangingbone’s free to stake her claim as long as she dedicates herself to helping Sprout harvest the next batch of leaping toadstools.”

An image of the two professors scrambling after the bulbous shrooms flashes unbidden in Draco’s head, and he snorts, helpless. Ernie grins back, flipping his blond hair. “Can you imagine?”

It feels good to laugh. Ernie is a good influence that way, his strange, snarky humor one of the aspects that won Draco over. In the last year, he’s discovered that Hufflepuffs can be delightfully petty when all that empathy oscillates in the other direction.

Drawn by the noise, Potter’s gaze meets Draco’s and then darts away as a reedy voice fills the air.

“Alright all! Gather round, gather round!”

Professor Hangingbone waves her hands, one flicking fluffy snow from a stone table as the other beckons them. She’s dressed in multiple layers as usual, her long face nearly disappearing into the cowl of her jumper and long coat under her robes.

“Hello, hello. Bit nippy isn’t it? She rubs her gloved hands together. “Well. As you all know we’ve been discussing Father Christmas, and the associated muggle traditions associated with him.”

She hefts her handbag onto the table before her, busily rummaging inside. “And while many of those traditions are familiar to you, I thought today’s lesson could do with a bit of fun.”

From the depths of the bag she removes a red velvet cap trimmed with fur and topped with a fluffy pom. “Here we are!”

“A Santa hat?” Dean Thomas asks incredulously. A few students turn to blink at him, then Hangingbone, seeking confirmation.

“In one! Though we must call him ‘Father Christmas’ Mr. Thomas, as it’s the proper term in our region. _Santa Claus_ is a disambiguation, loosely based on morality fables for children and the life of Saint Nicholas. And while muggle historians acknowledge his magical background, what they _do not know_ ,” she indicates the hat again with obvious excitement, “is that Father Christmas’ red hat is actually a _sorting_ hat.”

Draco frowns. He’s never heard anything like that. Glancing at the others, it seems they’re just as confused. Even Granger raises her brows at Weasley, who shrugs. Behind his glasses, Potter’s eyes are wide.

Hangingbone deflates, exhaling noisily.

“Come now! You think that _our_ Sorting Hat is the only one in the _world_? You must think bigger, darlings. Perhaps here at Hogwarts it’s a touch unique, but what about other magical institutions? Other historical figures? There is a whole, wide, world outside these walls!”

“I don’t know, Professor,” Finnigan grins, gesturing at Potter. “Wouldn’t be the first time Hogwarts’ produced something unique.” A few people laugh good-naturedly. Potter grimaces. Runs a hand through his awful hair and it lingers just a bit too long over the curls that Draco knows hide his scar.

“—to find out who is truly naughty and who is nice.” She finishes, as Draco tunes back in.

After a moment’s deliberation, Professor Hangingbone presents the red cap to Weasley, who looks shocked to be picked first.

“The real hat was specially designed to be worn atop Father Christmas’ head, and his head only,” She explains as she encourages Weasley to mime the action. “But this charmed replica,” she continues, “can do the very same. We’ll have you all try it on for a lark to see if it deems you ‘naughty or nice.’” Her eager gaze travels over each of them in turn, Draco feeling something akin to dread when her eyes land on him. 

Hangingbone turns back to Weasley. “Now try to think of the last time someone said something kind that elicited a strong reaction from you. Or, the last time someone said to make you very very cross. Negative emotions are usually much easier to access,” she titters.

“It’s sort of like a casting a Patronus, isn’t it?” Ernie murmurs to Draco. “Channeling your emotions to produce the results.”

Draco nods wordlessly. He hasn’t told anyone that he’s still unable to cast a Patronus.

Weasley closed his eyes. The red hat and his red hair make for a horrible effect and Draco’s tempted to stop looking when the cap swells, a warm glow appearing to emanate from within. Along the brim of white fur, shining gold letters begin to appear. The pom at the end of the hat stands erect, and when the words NICE appeared, it pops like a Christmas cracker, filling the air with confetti and a fragrant peppermint smell.

Weasley grins as the others hoot and cheer. Potter, who still seemed to be in a mood, offers a small grin, clapping Weasley on the back.

Around the semi-circle, the hat changes hands. There was a great roar of laughter when Finnigan is the first to be declared NAUGHTY, the red hat darkening to a deep black, piping acrid smoke from the tip. Granger was obviously NICE, Parvati who looked as if things could go either way, and Blaise, who tossed the hat as if he’d been burned when declared NAUGHTY.

On and on it went. Draco felt a roiling sense of panic. It was all well and good to be pronounced naughty when no one had cause to believe it was actually valid. There weren’t many standing amongst them that had actually tortured someone. Had been forced to see the things Draco had. Almost two years after the war, he’d finally begun to bridge the gap. Why remind everyone of the past he was trying to get away from? 

Wouldn’t it be nice to be perfect Potter, the lauded hero who would never have to worry about being deemed as anything but that. Heroic deed after heroic deed absolving him of all the times _The Prophet_ dragged his name through the mud. Draco couldn’t begin to imagine the looks of shock he’d receive if he donned the hat and ended up on the good side of things.

It was hard to decide which would be more shocking — if he was pronounced _nice_ or if Potter was pronounced _naughty._ If the golden boy was seen as human as the rest of them.

Draco shook his head. It would never happen.

He was next. Draco’s straightens, preparing himself for the inevitable when Potter suddenly crosses the circle. He comes to a stop in front of Ernie, using a wandless spell to fan away the smoke as Ernie gasps. Draco steps back, hoping the smoke will obscure his attempt to withdraw.

“Mr. Malfoy, front and center!” Professor Hangingbone’s voice rings out loud and clear, stopping him mid-step. “ _Everyone_ takes a turn and you are no exception. Pass the hat along, then, the sun will set eventually.” She sings with a claps her hands.

Stretching his arm, Ernie attempts to pass the cap, dropping it as another coughing fit overtakes him. Potter kneels and picks it up instead, shaking it free of snow as he wordlessly hands it to him.

Under his robes, Draco feels the gooseflesh rise along his arms.

He glances once more around the circle. All eyes were on him, even Hangingbone’s. They’re slightly manic and he feels hunted as he puts the cap on.

Unlike the Sorting Hat of their first year, there’s no whispering voice inside Draco’s head. What there is, is a pouring warmth, followed by a cooling sensation -- like being submerged in an icy bath or the icy brush of Dementors robes.

He wills himself to think pleasant thoughts, but the memories are fleeting. Instead, negative thoughts crash over him like waves. The terror of it all makes him tremble, tempt him into occlusion -- just the way Snape had taught him when he was still alive, robes swirling as he bade Draco to try again, and again.

With a shaky breath, Draco opens his eyes. He isn’t aware he’d even shut them until now. Around the circle, everyone stares back, looking, if possible, even more expectant than when he’d began.

“What?” Draco eyes dart back and forth. “What’s happened?” He rips the hat from his head, frenzied and frightened.

“Nothing—” Hangingbone looks up at him, utterly confused. “ _Nothing_ happened.”


	4. / comin' to town /

Prompt: 

That night, Draco has a strange dream. He’s seated in the Great Hall, a golden plate placed on the long table before him. Draco swallows mouthful after mouthful of coal until his mouth turns black. He can’t stop, even as tears prick the corners of his eyes and stream down his face. Out of the darkness, Potter appears before him, dancing in nothing but Father Christmas’ well-placed red hat and urgently shouting something Draco can’t hear. Potter’s eyes become increasingly panicked as he reaches out, but it’s too late and Draco can’t, he can’t..

He jolts upright, gasping for air as perspiration slides down his back. Hair sticks to his temples as Draco feels for his wand, pulling it from the holster on his thigh to cool himself down. Wearing the holster has second nature to him now, despite how strange it’d felt when he’d first bought it, the way he’d chided himself for his paranoia as he tried it on. It was justified, considering what happened to the Hawthorne.

Despite the fact that Potter had returned his want via the Malfoy family barrister, it hadn’t felt the same once it was back in his hands. He’d refused to use it and Narcissa refused to let him be without. There were weeks of furious silence before one of them finally broke. The connections his mother had had to exploit in order for Draco to obtain his new wand stretched quite thin. There was an air of finality about it that made it very clear those channels would not be available to the Malfoy name again.

Then there was the dream. Draco stares out into the gloom of his bed hangings. He’d never been one for Divination — he considered Millicent the expert in that area, her tarot readings more than alarmingly accurate — but there was a reason he had top marks. One didn’t have to be an scholar to interpret that eating coal until your tongue turned black was likely a bad sign. 

Now fully awake, Draco bathes and dresses. Once he’s done he gathers his things and heads into the common room in an attempt to catch up with his remaining school work, and more importantly, distract himself. A well-placed _geminio_ places what remains of his Runes essay unto a new scroll and he manages toadd another thirteen inches before a pair of third years accompanied by a burly fifth year trickle into the room and the light that filters through the murky water outside their window is bright enough to justify breakfast.

Unfortunately breakfast is much like the first six months of their reconstruction year spent at the castle. Since the incident with the hat, everyone has been keeping their distance, including the few people that would normally keep Draco company. Further down, on the other side of the table, Ernie looks up long enough to offer a sympathetic frown before tucking back into his meal. Seated beside him, Parvati sniffs and ignores Draco completely. Apparently the indifference of a charmed magical object made him even more of a social pariah than if it’d pronounced him evil incarnate. In their eyes, the fact that the hat had misfired made Draco an unknown entity, and with the war still fresh in everyone’s memory, no one was prepared to deal with that.

Draco plays with his porridge, glancing around until he spots Potter across the room. Unknown entities, indeed. He’d grimaced at Draco on his way into the Great Hall as Draco emerged from the Dungeons. He assumes Potter must be off to a bad start, himself. He has to realize what he looks like with his rumpled clothes and his black hair sleep tousled like he’s only just come down to bless them with his presence before heading back upstairs to make another go of it. The dark circles are still under his eyes, and as Potter moodily bites down on another rasher of bacon, it’s obvious whatever stick is lodged in his arse hasn’t been removed.

His stomach nowhere near full, Draco chucks his spoon back into his bowl and rises from the table, glowering at everyone who crosses his path until he reaches the doors. He has no classes until late afternoon, and suddenly the idea of leaving the castle for a few hours feels extremely tempting.

The path that leads into Hogsmeade is lined by great trees on each side, their branches heavy with snow. They arch overhead like joined hands, opening up the sky the nearer Draco gets to town. He makes a mental list of where he needs to stop:there was a trip to _Scrivenshaft’s_ for new quills (and extra inkpot thanks to Patil), _Gladrags_ to browse for heavier robes — thought he much prefers the fabrics at Twillfits and the tailor, who was discreet — and finally, _Honeydukes_ to indulge his sweet tooth.

He reaches _Scrivenshaft’s_ first, and is barely through the oak door when Draco is overcome by the sudden urge to _laugh_. It seems to bubble up in him without any warning, a fit of giggles that come out of nowhereand feels helpless to stop. Shocked, Draco claps a hand over his mouth, nearly displacing a display of self-indexing parchment as his shoulders shake.

“Well.” Old Scrivenshaft, from behind the counter, cranes his neck. His bushy brows lower as he eyes Draco with suspicion. “You’re in good spirits.”

He’s absolutely not, but Draco jerks his head anyway, squeezing his eyes shut against a guffaw. Puffs of air hit his palm, making a squelching noise that sounds suspiciously like he’s made wind. Scrivenshaft leans forward.

“I don’t see that anything funny about what I’ve said. See that you don’t get up to any mischief while you’re here or I’ll send you right back out that door.”

Draco hurriedly nods again, clapping his other hand over his mouthas he beelines for the other end of the shop. The quills are kept towards the back of the room in a giant display on the wall. Staring at the different models, he attempts to collect himself. Slowly he lowers his hands, watching his reflection in the glass as the urge subsides. His eyes feel damp and Draco wipes at them.

“Find what you’re looking for?”

Scrivenshaft stands behind him, bent over his cane as his eyes dart to the pockets of Draco’s robes. He fights not to roll his eyes. Three years ago his father would have purchased this entire store if Draco asked, and used the space to store his dress shoes. It would be nothing to give this older wizard a dressing down to which he would never recover and, for a moment, he misses being the Draco who had the freedom to do so.

Tears spring to his eyes.

Old Scrivenshaft looks as alarmed as Draco feels. “My word! Lad, are you alright?”

To his horror, Draco’s vision goes blurry, the elderly man obscuring into smears of colors as fat tears roll down his cheeks. He feels his chest hitch and a moment later, he’s crying in earnest.

“Here now, there’s no need to be upset! I just wanted to make sure you weren’t doing anything you shouldn’t!” Draco can barely make out the sound of Scrivenshaft’s cane as he taps it against the floor. “Stop all that crying! Drat!” The cane clatters as he drops it. “Now see what you’ve done??”

Draco’s eyes flutter. He leans down and picks it up,handing it back to Scrivenshaft as he sniffs noisily.

“Merlin’s beard… here, son.” He hands Draco a handkerchief. “Just tell me what you need and we’ll see if we can ring it up for you and get you on your way.”

At the register, Draco daps at eyes. He blows his nose and wipes, careful of his nose and it’s tendency to turn red. He’s embarrassed beyond belief. Not to mention wildly confused as to why he felt the need to cry in the first place. He’d been angry in that moment — frustrated, annoyed. And while he known himself well enough to know he was capable of his fair share of strops, the suggestion of theft certainly wasn’t an occasion Draco felt merited _tears_. Especially since it was something he’d actually done before.

“Two peacock quills. One porcupine..,” Scrivenshaft carefully examines each as he puts them into a bag. He adds another quick quill and three bottles of ink. “The total will be four—“

Draco slaps his hand down on the counter as a belly laugh knocks him off his feet. His stomach actually hurts he’s laughing so hard. He has to grip the smooth wood to keep himself upright. Still gripping Scrivenshaft’s soiled handkerchief in one hand.

The old man steps back. If he looked alarmed before, he’s positively frightened now. Frantically he paws beneath the counter. Draco’s certain he’s searching for his wand. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’ve had just about enough!”

“N-no!” Draco howls, his knees buckling. “I’m— I need to buy —hehehe!” Shaking his head, Draco reaches for the bag of goods, dragging it as he falls to the floor. Lying on his side, Draco reaches shakily into his robes, down now to hiccuping snorts, to produce his money pouch.

“Hehe-he-here,” He drops the money and shuts his eyes.

“Get out, right now!” Scrivenshaft shouts.

Dizzy and confused, Draco wobbles to his feet and does just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, but I'm trying!  
> I had apple pie while I wrote this, so at least I was happy.


	5. / checking it twice /

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /flounders to keep up  
> /promises to clean it up later

Prompt: 

“What’s wrong with him?” Pansy’s disembodied voice is muffled by the thick velvet curtain that separates them. It sways gently as Draco stares at it from the other side. The ever present chill of December soaks bone deep into the walls of the castle, the stone rigid at Draco's back as cold seeps through the material of his jumper. 

“He says he’s not coming out,” Parvati answers, sounding far more used to his moods than their brief period of tentative friendship would belie. Her delivery is flippant, and Draco imagines she’s more annoyed with him than anything else, standing in the middle of the fifth floor hallway while her schoolbag digs into her shoulder.

“Is he ill?” Pansy again. She’s moved closer, the curtain bulging as her body comes into contact with the _disturb-me-not_ he’s placed it. Draco would be touched by the worry in her voice if he didn’t already know that Pansy’s presence is one part concern and two parts knowledge that Draco's favorite hiding spot has a particularly good view of the Prefect’s bathroom, which he, Pansy and Anthony Goldstein still have unfettered access, and that that privilege is one Goldstein has been known to abuse endlessly.

A low, rough, voice surprises him. “Has he died in there?” Theo sounds as if the idea tickles him immensely. “Draco Malfoy,” he intones gravely, “if you’ve passed to the other side,knock twice.”

“He _is_ on the other side. I believe we’ve reached the part of the story where someone rolls the stone away.”

Parvati snorts. “Not my area of expertise, but if we’re going to leave him here for three days, I’d rather get on with it. Hangingbone won’t miss him after what happened last time.”

“On the contrary, I’ve hear Hangingbone’s eager to try again," says Theo. "Draco’s little misstep meant she couldn’t get a read on Potter. Holed herself up in her chambers the past two days, trying to figure out what went wrong. Personally, I suspect the whole ordeal is an attempt to get to him. Probe Potter's mind,” Theo muses. “As it were—”

“How do you know all that?” Draco abruptly throws the curtain aside, feeling his pulse quicken. Three sets of eyes dart to his face in various states of exasperation. Parvati indeed has her bag slung over her shoulder, arms crossed. Pansy leans against the wall nearest him worrying a nail, and Theo looks relatively unfazed, although his brown hair looks as if he's run his fingers through it more than a few times. Draco focuses expectantly on him, his eyes probing Theo to continue.

He seems to get the message. “Vigorous eavesdropping. Hangingbone dropped by Flickwick’s office to ask him a few questions while he was looking over the schematics for that prototype I told you about.” Theo pauses. Draco expectants he's waiting for one of them to ask for details. When no one does Theo scowls, but keeps going. “Flickwick had me wait outside the room, but didn’t couldn’t be bothered with a simple _muffilato_. I suppose he forgot.”

“But she’s bringing the hat?” Draco leaps down from the alcove’s raised bench to shrug his robes back on, hurriedly threading one arm, then the other through the sleeves while grabbing for his bag.

“That’s why you wouldn’t talk to anyone yesterday?” Pansy asks, her brows raised. “That dumb sorting hat? You were in such a foul mood when you got back from Hogsmeade, you practically radiated a stink. The first years were casting coins to see who could sit closest to you without passing out from nerves.”

“Slytherins,” Parvati sighs, “sound a lot like Gryffindors.”

Theo shoots her the closest thing he has to a smile as they begin to walk. “Only because money was involved.”

Having successfully lured him out of hiding with valuable information, Draco follows the others down the corridor line with portraits, to the staircase that connects to the other side of the third floor. As another staircase thunks into place above their heads, Draco is lost in thought. Even if he tried to answer Pansy’s question, he’s not sure he would have had one for her that didn't make him sound as mad as he’d felt lying on Scrivenshaft’s floor.

Lately it feels like he can’t tell if any of his feelings or subsequent moods are his own. After fleeing the stationary store, Draco hadn’t bothered to make any of his other stops except _Honeydukes_ , where he’d angrily purchased a square of Alihosty fudge in order to test it against his symptoms. Alihosty, the primary ingredient in Laughing Potions, seemed like the most obvious place for him to start. While it was a long shot to think that someone had possibly snuck the leaf’s essence into his breakfast or hexed him, food related paranoia was something Draco was readily prepared for. Unfortunately, once he’d returned to his room and ran all the diagnostic spells he could think of on both the Alihosty and himself, there were no results strong enough to support his theory. Especially when, in the next moment, a wave of heartrendingly sweet contentment washed over him, despite his frustration.

Draco's had time to mull it over. The more he thought about it, the more his instincts seemed all but scream in the direction of Hangingbone’s Sorting Hat and the way it had backfired, leaving him with no response at all. Superstitious or not, it made sense to connect his wild fluctuations in mood to the unspoken pronouncement that he may be stuck in some kind of morality limbo.

Lately it felt like his sleepless nights, his errant magic, the stress of the upcoming holidays, and his unbidden thoughts of Potter were all compounding to form some strange miasma that Draco was blindly wandering through, but couldn’t find his way out of.

Secretly he fears that after all this time, he might actually be losing his mind.

Which is why he needs to try the hat on again. Whether it pronounces him NAUGHTY or NICE, at least he’ll have his answer. And if he tries it on again and it says nothing at all.. well, that’ll be an answer of sorts, too.

Professor Hangingbone’s classroom is located on the first floor in Classroom Eleven, a room Draco briefly remembers hearing Pansy mention in passing during fifth year, when she'd taken Divination with the exiled centaur from the Forbidden Forest. Years later, the room no longer resembled a mossy forest floor now, but a classroom not unlike those Draco’s seen in images of muggle primary schools: individual wooden desks, a large green chalkboard, and impressively, a telly attached to a steel arm in one corner of the ceiling that Hangingbone has rigged to work, despite the lack of electrical wiring within the castle.

Most of the eighth year students are already seated when Draco walks in, chatting and joking as they prepare their quills and flip idly through their textbooks. However, there’s a noticeable change in volume as Draco weaves his way between the chairs, hands covering mouths in hushed whispers as eyes flicker over him and away again. Pansy and Parvati takes seats in the back of the room, nont too far from Potter who also sits towards the back of the roomin an obvious attempt to discourage Hangingbone. Theo takes his usual seat near the windows, the chair closest to him already occupied by Longbottom, which forces Draco to drop into the only seat left upfront.

Blaise looks up in surprise as Draco busies himself smoothing his parchment.

“Are we back on speaking terms already?” His deep baritone makes the words ooze like honey, slow moving and heavy with intent. “I thought I had until New Years at least, for one of us to issue a formal apology.”

“I'll keep waiting, then.” Draco digs into his bag for one of his new peacock quills. He’s still debating whether to give the other to Parvati as an apology, or wait until they’re closer to the holidays so it will double more as a thoughtful gift than a guilty regret.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Blaise croons. “Look, I even have an early present for you, Malfoy. Consider this a truce.” Reaching into his own satchel, Blaise pulls out what looks like a thin leaflet with several pages. Draco leans in for a closer look. “A.. calendar?”

“Not just any calendar.” Blaise looks around, his grin mischievous. “Nicked it from the girls when they weren’t looking. Thought it might cheer you up.” He carefully turns it so that only Draco can see when he flips the it open. December is a decidedly toned man’s torso, sat on the ground and covered in the same colorful muggles fairy from their last class. Blaise taps the page with his wand and the lights wrapped around the man’s body twinkle as he stretches suggestively. “See?”

“And why,” Draco asks, with what he knows is a near perfect impression of Narcissa Malfoy’s icy distain, “would you think I have any interest in something like this?”

Blaise looks at Draco like he’s asked him to spell his own name.You’re not serious.”

It’s odd, but for a moment the question throws Draco. _Was_ he serious? It was presumptuous of Blaise to be sure, but that didn’t make it untrue. Why choose _distain_ instead of anger at the assumption, or annoyance at the approach — even fear, in light of the sexuality he had yet to fully step into and claim for what it was? What it might mean for his future?

He had no chance to address it as their Professor chose that moment to sweep into the classroom, a cool breeze accompanying her as she shuts the door and deposits her bag onto her desk. Blaise quickly stuffs the calendar back into his bag and faces front.

“Hello, hello, all.” Hangingbone seems distracted, a stiffness in her movements as she unwinds her scarf. She discards it, reaching back into her bag to pull a few sheets of parchments, a bit of self-writing chalk, and then Draco spots it. The hat.

His hand shoots up almost immediately. Around him, his classmates turn to look, and even the sensation of their eyes boring into him doesn’t serve to make him hesitate. “Professor!”

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy?” She ask with barely concealed trepidation.

“About last class, the bit of _…_ _fun_ with Father Christmas,” Draco begins, careful to staunch his sarcasm. “I notice you’ve brought the hat with you." Hangingbone glances down at it, the thin hand bracing her desk curling into a fist. "If you don’t mind, I’d like to try again. I think there’s may have been something wrong with it the first time.”

A look of shock, and possibly anger, flits over her plain features before settling into placid interest. “I see. While I would like to grant your request, Draco, I _did_ say that everyone would have a turn. I believe there’s still a few of your classmates who haven’t had a chance. Mr. Potter, for instance.”

All heads turn towards the back of the room to Potter, who focuses his scathing look on Draco alone. It sends a delicious thrill of malice through him. There was something so disingenuous about the way Potter always assumed he’d be the center of attention, whether he asks for it or not. The way he easily dismisses the interest of others as if it were beneath him, but still felt he had the right to pass judgement on others for wanting that same attention to be paid.

Draco sneers. Let him stew, then.

“I understand, Professor," Draco says, turning back around. "I absolutely believe Potter should have a go at it. Right after myself, seeing as I brought it up.” He stands and walks towards her desk. “And I’m right here, after all. It’ll be quick, I assure you.”

From the back of the classroom, a chair scraps the floor with a metallic sound that draws every eye. Just five minutes into class and with the two of them at odds, it was resembling Wimbledon.

“Actually, Professor Hangingbone,” Potter says, stepping into the aisle and walking forward with the determined, confident gait Draco knew Potter to adopt when he was set to throw himself into something. “I’d like to try that Sorting Hat, after all. I think I could use a laugh.”

 _The hell he could_. Incensed, Draco snatches the hat off Hangingbone’s desk, mere seconds before she makes to grab it herself, but not before Potter lunges, fingers wrapping around the fluffy pom with a stubborn grip that makes Draco want to send his fist right into Potter’s smug face.

“Malfoy!” Potter throws his weight into Draco, a sharp elbow digging into his stomach and knocking the wind out of him as they fall to the floor. The surrounding desks skid across the stone, their classmates leaping to their feet to break things up, and a few, to egg them on.

“Get 'em good, Harry! Serves the tosser right!” Weasley shouts, looking as if he might join in, as Granger grabs Potter by the back of the robes in an attempt to pull him off. Ernie and Blaise each take one of Draco's arms, dragging him out of range of Potter’s still swinging arms.

Someone attempts to brush the pale hair from his face as Draco takes labored breathes, the pain in his abdomen sharp, throbbing unpleasantly as he inhales. It takes effort to make his eyes focus. He's dismayed that they do so just in time to watch Potter pull the red cap down over his tangled curls, his face flushed. There's a angry pink scratch on Potter's cheek, bringing attention to how bright his eyes are, high as they are with the rush of adrenaline.

It’s Hangingbone who cries out, the color draining from her face. It's too late to draw her wand. The Santa hat neither stands erect, nor turns black, but begins to violently twist in on its self atop Potter’s head. Blinding light, like a hundred lumos or the final moments of a dying star, causes Draco to shield his eyes as the light bursts and Potter topples to the ground.


	6. / curly head dolls /

Prompt: 

Healing tonic. A muscle relaxer. An small ampule of sleeping draught for a good night’s rest.

Properly medicated, Draco tampers his irritation long enough to give Madam Pomfrey a polite nod as he slips on his shoes. He likes the school’s matronly nurse — the way she never asks too many questions and doesn’t allow for opportunities of bias to keep her from efficiently doing her job. She’s almost laughably Hufflepuff, with her kind mannerisms and parental rebukes. Pomfrey reminds Draco of the nurse he’d had as a child at the manor, when his parents had decided they’d rather have him forego nursery school for a private tutor. The transference of those feelings of affection has resulted in an unquestionable deference when in the hospital wing, that Draco would never admit to if asked.

Within his robes, the glass vials clink against each other, bumping against the outside of thigh. He uses his wand and does a cushioning charm that doesn’t hold. Instead the tubes float weightlessly from his pocket, soft as a marshmallows when Draco grabs them out of the air.

Instead of heading back to the dungeons, Draco heads across the foyer to the Great Hall for dinner. He’s tired of feeling like he has to avoid the space and the prying eyes of his classmates every time something happens. Potter attacked _him._ And yes, maybe Draco’s anger makes him feel a little reckless. There’d been no sign of Potter when Draco’d finished being examined and he’s hungry to finish what the Chosen One started.

Draco raises his chin and walks with all the aplomb and poise he’s ever been taught. He’s relieved when he spots not only Blaise and Pansy, but Ernie waiting for him on the end of the eighth year table. He drops wearily into the seat next to Pansy who pulls his arm as soon as he draws within range.

“They wouldn’t let us in,” Pansy starts immediately, her eyes roving his face. Draco thinks she might be checking to make sure everything is still where it belongs. “Hangingbone sent us all off immediately after they too you and he-who-shall-not-be-sorted to the infirmary.”

“Are you alright?” Ernie leans in, placing a warm hand on Draco’s shoulder. Draco turns to him. His blonde eyebrows are knit and it makes his entire face scrunch. Draco wants to laugh. Objectively, Ernie isn’t his type with his fair features similar to Draco’s own, but he’s handsome enough, and if Draco didn’t suspect that he was hopelessly straight, he’d would be tempted to make a go of it. As it were, he only nods, suddenly incredibly tired.

“I think you’ve earned this,” Blaise says, slipping a piece of paper face down across the table. Draco picks it up. It’s another calendar page, this one of a thin, but toned, dark haired man with nothing on but a stylized reindeer thong covering his bits. He’s much more Draco’s type, but like hell he’ll let Blaise know that. “Why does your calendar have two Decembers?”

“You mean _my_ calendar,” says Pansy. She punches Blaise’s shoulder and he winces. “This is last December’s. We both agreed it might cheer you up, seeing how it looks like— seeing as how if you were _interested_ in anyone, no matter their gender, we would support you.” She finishes the last with a delicate sniff, but never breaks eye contact. Their gaze remains locked for a long moment, Draco trying to send all the gratitude and sheer _relief_ he feels knowing someone has his back. It doesn’t feel like enough. Even within his own house, among his friends, Draco has a lot to make up for.

Feeling overcome, he shifts his attention back to Mr. December and his shiny red bulge. Draco folds the image over, pressing one sharp crease, then another. “What happened to the hat?”

Ernie shrugs. “No one knows. It basically disintegrated on top of Harry’s head. Hangingbone suspects it has something to do with his magic signature. He got upset and it went haywire. No one’s seen him since.”

Draco says nothing and makes another fold.It’s just like Potter to make a scene because he can’t control his temper like a normal person. If the worse he’s managed is a scratch on his face or a bruised ego, Draco thinks smugly, then it serves the git right.

Of course he says none of this out loud. Draco’s not looking but he can tell his silence makes his friends uneasy.

“No one blames you, darling,” Pansy lowers her voice, darting her eyes towards the other end of the table. Draco cranes his neck to follows her gaze.

Potter’s sitting down at the table, sandwiched as usual between Weasley and Granger. As if she can sense his gaze, it’s Granger who catches Draco’s eyes with her own. She seems to consider him for a moment, like she’s mulling something over before Potter says something that pulls her attention. It’s just as well. Draco wants to stay clear of her too. He’d written Granger over the summer towards the end of his probation, too cowardly to approach her on his own while they’d been taking part in the reconstruction. He’d told himself he was waiting for the right moment, but it seemed the right moment never presented itself and he’d justified the wasted opportunities as a sign that his written apology would be enough. Guilt pulls at him.

So it’s strange when he snorts with laughter, instead. 

“Draco?” Beside him, Ernie looks confused.

“Sorry, I uh..” He shakes his head, ruefully. Points to the dirty calendar page he’s folded into dragon. Ernie nods, albeit hesitantly and Draco tries to get himself under control.

He doesn’t know where it came from. Nothing like so extreme as what happened at Scrivenshaft’s has happened since, and he’d allowed himself to think the few hours of relief meant whatever curse, hex, _spell of bad luck_ he’d be under was ending. Out of the corner of his eye, as the chortling subsides, something pulls Draco eye to the other end of the table. Potter is laughing too, Weasley gesturing with his hands. He smiles, and as he does, Draco feels a flutter of warm content in his belly.

It just doesn’t make any sense.

He’s grateful when the plates of hot, delicious food appears in front of them on the table. He tucks in, relieved to concentrate on something else.


	7. / for goodness sake /

Prompt: 

The following morning after breakfast, Headmistress McGonagall asks all the eighth years to stay behind in the Great Hall. Draco braces himself for a lecture —he’s been wondering when she’d address the fight after heading about it — but in fact, all McGonagall does is give them the morning off with the task to find a Christmas tree to for Hangingbone’s classroom. Apparently Hagrid, who usually takes it upon himself to decorate the castle for the holidays, has taken time off to visit family (an idea that Draco thinks should alarm more people than it does). The Headmistress presents as a good opportunity for them to work on _overcoming differences_ — a way to make it up to their Muggles Studies professor for all the recent _commotion._

Granger is in her element as they trudge into the snow, she and Longbottom leading them all towards the part of the forest where the best Evergreens are known to grow. Draco idly listens to their discussion of needle fullness and branch quality, until his mind begins to wander. He thinks back on the last few days, still trying to nail down what’s been so strange about them.

Why he feels like his mind can’t focus.

On the edge of their group, Potter fidgets. Draco feels an almost odd detachment as he watches him from the corner of his eye. Potter looks just as out of it as Draco feels, standing with his hands buried in his pockets, dark hair falling into his eyes. Distantly, Longbottom motions for Blaise to come help, asks him to aim his wand at a knot high in the tree while they attempt a severing charm at the base.

It seems to happen in slow-motion. A branch in a neighboring tree, directly over Blaise’s head comes loose. Draco barely has time to open his mouth when Potter, quick as a flash, lashes his wand at the branch and it explodes into a shower of wood chips and splinters.

Blaise blinks rapidly, for once too stunned to make a flip remark. Instead, he offers Potter his genuine thanks, pronouncing the save to be quite agreeable of him.

Draco’s gut lurches. Violently.

He’s moving before he realizes his feet are carrying him, and in a burst of mean satisfaction, rears back and slaps Blaise hard across the face.

“Draco! What the bloody fuck!?”Blaise cups his cheek, glaring daggers.

“I- I didn’t mean to,”says Draco lamely, knowing full well he looks, and sounds, like an asshole.

Potter hurriedly steps out of range, likely afraid that he might be next.

“The hell you didn’t!” Blaise roars. “You’ve been a moody tit all week!” Parvati, her long dark braid sliding over her shoulder, scoop a handful of snow into her glove and holds it to Blaise’s cheek. He bristles irritably, pushing her hand away. His face is already starting to swell. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but leave me out of it.” Turning on his dragonhide boots, he stomps back towards the castle, snow crunching noisily under his feet. Parvati gives Draco a wary look before going after him.

It’s eerily quiet. Draco’s face flames as he turns around. “This is all your fault!” He sneers, advancing on Potter.

“Me?!” Potter’s eyes flash. “I just saved his life!”

“Oh, yes, Saint Potter! Never a dull moment around you and your savior complex!” Draco spits, his tone venomous. “You just love lording it over everyone, don’t you!”

“Do you hear yourself?” Potter shakes his head. “You sound deranged, Malfoy!If you want me to stay away from you so badly, then you stay away from me first!”

“Gladly! Go be superior somewhere else!”

“Tch!” Potter turns to leave and slips on the an icy patch, falling onto his arse in the snow. Draco doesn’t bother to hide his mocking laughter. But then Potter begins to laugh too, rubbing his behind in pain as his shoulders continue to shake. It’s like he can’t help it, which is strange. It’s strange because he’d been so angry just a moment ago, and while it’s perfectly natural for Draco to laugh at him, Potter has _never_ been know to laugh at his own expense. 

That’s when it hits Draco. His mean-spirited laughter dies on his lips as his stomach drops to his feet.

He may know what’s going on after all — he’s just not sure he likes the answer.


	8. / bad or good /

Prompt: 

Draco would much rather ignore the situation entirely. The idea that he has any kind of connection to Potter, especially after how miserable they’ve been making each other lately, feels like the icing on top of a perfectly _shite_ cake. Potter already invades his dreams. He’s universally loved and arguably the most famous wizard in Europe, if not the world. Draco would never be able to escape from him even if he wanted to. It makes it doubly impossible if they’ve got some kind of… magical _mood_ thing tying them.

That’s what he suspects it is, anyway. Draco’s been watching Potter to be sure, but everything that’s been happening makes sense: feeling tired and unfocused while Potter walks around looking like ill, laughing when things aren’t funny, being overcome by waves of sadness so strong he bursts into tears.

And that’s a frightening thought, isn’t it? Just the _suggestion_ that there may be times Potter goes off by himself to have a good cry over things from his past that he can’t change, and the people he loved that he can never get back. Draco feels uncomfortable when he thinks about it, so he doesn’t. Instead he pushes it to the back of him mind, along with the thought that if this, _whatever_ it is, goes both ways, Potter make have some insight into Draco’s thoughts that he’d rather he not, at all.

His wanking habits, for instance.

In December, the merpeople tend to hibernate in their underwater caves, deep in the center of the lake, and there’s not much to watch in the water outside the dungeon’s windows except the gillyweed that bobs and ebbs with the current and the occasional curl of the great squid’s tentacles. Occasionally, he’ll tap them against the glass in a rhythm Draco’s come to understand as _hello_.

However, can’t stay in the dungeons right now. It’s not because Blaise is giving him the cold shoulder — he’s dealt with that before, and Pansy and Theo have been very good about keeping him company, doing their best to ignore his occasional giggles or his curtness when he grows impatient with them. He’ll have to make it up to them this holiday for sure. Neither of them celebrate Christmas but love presents, and he makes a note to order something by owl mail, as he’s hesitant to attempt Hogsmeade again.

No, Draco is not in the dungeons because he’s headed towards Gryffindor Tower.

The day is flat and grey outside, making the horizon hard to distinguish between the snow and the sky as he crosses the courtyard. He’d been to the Owlery to send a letter off to his mother, since she’s being unusually stubborn. Stopped by the kitchens for some biscuits, and all manner of meaningless errands to put off the inevitable. He needs to talk to Potter and for once, he doesn’t want to do it while the entire school is watching.

Not that the tower is much better, but Draco feels catching Potter off guard will be to his advantage. He won’t expect Draco to come anywhere near him after yesterday and because it’s the weekend, there won’t be as many people around. Deep down, Draco’s honestly a little curious to see what the inside of the famed house common room looks like. It’s probably a disgusting mass of red and gold that will sear his retinas and offend his sensibilities.

Once he’s climbed the stairs and found the portrait of The Fat Lady, he braces against the wall opposite. Her eyes are round as she takes in his green and white scarf, his pale features. “Are you sure you’re in the right place, love?”

Draco snorts. “I’m absolutely sure it’s the wrong place, but that’s the point.”

Apparently she doesn’t know what to say to that, and he doesn’t expect a response.

Eventually a small girl, whose tie identifies her as a second-year, climbs through the portrait hole, and Draco glimpses a shocking amount of fairy lights and tinsel, inside. She starts, when she sees him, still holding the door open.He inclines his head, gives her his most charming smile — the one he used to ask Pansy to the Yule Ball even when he knew he wasn’t attracted to her (or anyone with a fanny). The one that had gotten him his first kiss afterwards, hidden in the bushes, with a dark haired Drumstrang boy.

She blushes and moves aside, allowing him to climb through. He winks as he pulls the door closed.

Then he’s in the lion den.

It’s very much what he expected and yet, not at all. The red and gold was predictable enough. It’s everywhere, the curtains, the armchairs, the pendants and cushions. But the windows are large and let in a lot of light. The furniture looks worn but inviting, and the hearth has a roaring fire that crackles brightly. It’s where Draco finds Potter and Weasley, sat on the ground with cups of hot chocolate on the low table in front of them, an open bag of marshmallows, and an absurdly large bowl of popcorn.

Draco clears his throat. Smoothes down the front of his gray jumper. “Potter.”

His head whips around, eyes bugged behind the lens of his hideous glasses as Potter cranes his neck to look up at him. “How did you get in here??” He leans his torso around Draco to check the door behind him. Like he’s invited everyone in his house to accompany him. The memory of the cabinets prickles uncomfortably in his memory, and Potter’s agitation hits him.

“Get out of here, Malfoy, I don’t want to talk to you,” Potter continues. Besides him, Weasley moves to climb to his feet. 

Draco holds up his hands, palms out in deference. Ugh. The things he has to do sometimes. “Believe me Potter, I wouldn’t step foot into this _den_ unless it were important. We need to talk.”

Potter’s hand hovers over the spot Draco knows he keeps his wand, but he doesn’t draw it. Not that he’d really need to - Draco’s seen what he can do without one. Weasley, moves the popcorn to the floor, warily. Apparently they’ve been stringing popcorn for the garish tree sitting in the corner behind them.

“Have you been feeling out of sorts lately?” Draco asks, getting right to the point. “Episodes? Strange mood swings?”

“That’s none of your business. If I were, what would it have to do with you?”

Draco swallows. Then does one of the bravest things he’s ever done thus far and lowers himself to the ground, scooting next to Potter. “I think the hat might have ... done something to us.” 

“Done something,” Potter repeats, eyebrows raised. He huffs loudly, taken back. “You’re out of your mind.”

“You’ve been upset lately. Not sleeping. So have I. Haven’t you had times where you laughed even if something wasn’t funny? Upset when you should be happy?” Draco shoots him an accusing look. “You’re irritated right now!”

“So are you!” He shoots back. “And that’s not exactly a leap considering out history.”

“Yes but, Potter— ” Draco starts. This isn’t going how he’d planned. Not that he’d really planned it at all. He’s still surprised he hasn’t been thrown out yet, or enduring hex after hex.

“You asked me to leave you alone, didn’t you?” Potter asks in the same pleading voice. He extends his legs as he turns and Draco idly notices that Potter’s woolen socks have little stags on them.

“Don’t make fun of me, I— for gods sake Weasley, here.” Draco reaches across Harry and threads the needle himself, his moments swift as he ties one end of the string off and shoves them back at him.

Weasley scowls and takes them without saying thank you, but that’s to be expected. He doesn’t expect everyone to have the manners he does.

He also doesn’t expect Potter to grab his mug ofhot chocolate and pours it into Weasley’s lap. Shocked, Draco watches as Potter deliberately lets the mug drain, shaking off the dregs before putting it down. Weasley shakes off his stupor and jumps to his feet. His entire crotch is soaked. “Harry!?” He shrieks with the indignation of someone who enjoys having a prick and wants to use it again one day.

Potter grabs his arm and pulls him back to down. “I don’t know what that was about!” he hisses. “It just happened!”

Draco is torn between embarrassed sympathy and laughing his arse off. Glancing at Potter finds he’s trying to keep his mouth straight as he spells Ron dry.

“Explain _that_ , Potter,” Draco says with satisfaction. “Why would you suddenly douse your underling?”

“I’m not his underling, you git!”

“My hand slipped,” Potter starts to explain, raising his chin. But Malfoy’s not going to play that game. 

“You did that deliberately. And what more, you _enjoyed_ it. You got pleasure out of it.”

A brief glimpse of something like recognition flits across Potter’s face, quickly replaced by annoyance. “I think that’s more your thing, Malfoy.” 

“Pleasure? I suppose i’m not opposed to it, but that’s hardly something I’d discuss with _you_.” He doesn’t miss the way Potter’s face heats at that, the thrill that runs through him. “Haven’t you been listening at all, Potter? Test it. Try something else.”

“Harry, what’s he talking about?” Weasley still looks traumatized and the talk of figuratively getting off isn’t helping. 

Potter sighs. “Will it get you to go away?”

“Says the person who’s been following me around all year.”

He ignores this and picks up his wand. “Fine. What should I do?” 

Malfoy bites his lip. He hasn’t thought this far. Their moods seem to mirror each other accurately enough, but the things they’ve done involuntary seem a bit trickier. 

“You saved Blaise right before I slapped him.. Maybe something like that.”

Potter gives him an even look. “I can’t just recreate a life or death situation, Malfoy.”

“I don’t know,” Weasley mutters, “if the git doesn’t leave soon, we might get pretty close.”

“I’ll thank you not to threaten me, Weasley. I’m quite comfortable, even if your common room is as hot as a Ridgeback’s arsehole.” Draco pulls at his collar. “Do something nice. That’s what the hat was about right? Trying to sort us as one or the other.”

“We were the only two who weren’t...” Potter says, his eyes darting back and forth as the words sink in.

“Right. So go on, then. Be your usual holier-than-thou and do something nice for me.”

His eyes never leaving Draco’s, Potter summons a house elf and asks it to bring Draco a steaming mug of hot chocolate. It’s mere seconds later that it arrives, Potter adding a few marshmallows before sliding it towards him. Draco takes it with nervous excitement. Blows on it for a moment, then takes a sip. He waits for the compulsion to rise in him, the one that will make him react before he has time to register what he’s doing.

Nothing happens.

“Nothing happened,” says Weasley, stating the obvious. He crosses his arms, looking smug. “I figured he was making it up, mate. Doesn’t have anything better to do than try to pull one over on you.”

Draco blinks. Disappoint wells up within him like he’s submerged himself in the lake. He doesn’t understand. He was so sure that his theory was right. 

He turns his head and Potter is shaking his, brows furrowed. His expression looks lost. “No, I— I think he might be right?” He looks at Weasley and it’s a bit panicked. “I should be glad that Malfoy was wrong but I feel disappointed?” Potter’s eyes meet his and linger. Draco has to pull his gaze away first.

“Let me try something,” he says, instead. Draco grabs the needle and thread from Weasley’s slackened hands. Fingers the needle with a moment’s consideration but doesn’t give himself too much time to deliberate before he spears Weasley’s behind.

Instantly there’s a feeling of euphoria. A thrill rushes down Draco’s spine and zips back up.

“Fucking hell!” Weasley howls. He grips an arse cheek in one hand and fumbles for his wand with the other. Draco hand goes to his thigh. 

Potter grabs Weasley by the back of his hideous ‘R’ jumper and lowers him down onto the cushions he’s suddenly transfigured out of marshmallows. He tucks one cushion behind Weasley’s back as another slips itself under his feet and onto his lap, propping him up until there are so many pillows surrounding Weasley, he looks like a ginger-haired snowman.

“Err.” Potter slowly puts down his wand. He licks his lips, his eyes bright. “What just happened?”

“Naughty,” Draco points to himself. He points to Harry. His pupils are blown. “Nice.”

Weasley’s eyes widen. “Are you saying that whenever you act like, like _you_ , Harry’s going to go around conjuring cushions for everyone??”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Try to keep up, Weaselbee. It would seem that every time one of us does something naughty or _nice_ ,” he uses air quotes around the word, “the other feels compelled to do the opposite.”

“What, like an _Imperio_? But Harry can throw that off! I’ve seen him do it.” There’s a note of pride in Weasley’s voice as if it wasn’t Potter but _him_ who threw off an Unforgivable like it was an old cloak.

Potter shakes his head. “I think this is different, Ron. Malfoy’s not the one actually issuing a command, so there’s no intent behind it. And it doesn’t seem like we can use it on each other…We just feel the other’s mood?” He looks to Draco, who shrugs, playing his best at nonchalance while his heart pounds in his chest.

“I suppose.”

“Then, err,” Potter frowns. “What are we supposed to do about it?”

A pair of feet appears before them. Draco’s eyes trail up from the neatly laced oxfords to the face of one Hermione Granger, who looks shell-shocked to see him sitting next amongst her best friends in front of the fire Gryffindor Common Room. She seems to push that aside, pushes herself to ask, “Do about what?”

Weasley shakes his head and pats the cushion beside him. “You’re going to need one of these.”


	9. / rooty toot toots /

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm having a hard time keeping up, lol💦

Prompt: 

A stiff breeze moves across the surface of the lake as Draco drapes his scarf around his neck and knots it, nuzzling down into fabric that’s been spelled to be soft as a cloud. The ripples work their way towards them, Draco with his arms wrapped around his knees and Potter, on the other end of the blanket, crossed-legged. The light glinting off Potter’s lens’ obscures his eyes, which is just as well - he doesn’t want to know in what direction he’s looking as Hermione repeats herself.

“Your magic will continue to fluctuate if you two do nothing!” Her frizzy hair bounces around her head like a brown halo as she scolds them. “It doesn’t matter if your actions are good or bad, the need for gratification will build and build until you satisfy it! It’s that or satisfy each other!”

“Don’t phrase it like that,” Potter grouses, his chin in hand. A few yards away, someone has built a snowman, the snow packed unevenly making him lop-sided. Potter swishes his wand and the carrot moves from the center of it’s face to the top of it’s head, like a unicorn.

“You know what I mean, Harry,” is Hermione’s curt reply. She picks up one of the many books she’s brought out to the lake with her, flipping the pages until she finds the passages she’s bookmarked. “It’s all right here: _atmospheric spells are especially potent when tied to emotion, especially once cast on two or more with strong magical signatures. Unless harmonized amongst the individuals involved, symptoms will result in loss of impulse control and irrational behavior. Left unchecked, there is great chance that the victims will lose the ability to control their magic, completely, followed by permanent ability loss_.”

Draco clenches his teeth, plucking at the blue gingham beneath him. “None of that tells us what we actually have to _do_ about it, Granger.”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Potter snaps. His dark curls fall across his forehead as he whips his head around.

“Talk to her like what? I’m politely pointing out the obvious. Like the fact that you’re not making any of this easier having a temper tantrum!” Draco throws himself down so that he’s lying on his back. It’s a cloudless day and staring up at the sky feels like he’s staring into forever. He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breathes, relieved as the tension drains out of him, slowly. To his left he hears Potter exhale in a long sigh.

“Was that you?”

“ _Yes_.” Draco claps a hand to his forehead. He can feel Potter watching him. He turns his head in his direction. “Potter, this not just my problem, it’s yours too. You don’t want to go to back to a life without magic, do you?”

“Of course not!”

“Good.” Draco sits up and folds his legs under him. “Our magic acts up when we’re together but the effects of the curse weaken. If we work at it, we can keep each other from going off the skid. It’s when we’re apart that the effects of the curse increase.” After a pause, Draco shares with them what happened to him in Hogsmeade, as well as his interactions with his friends. Surprisingly, Potter also shares an embarrassing episode about a dramatic outburst that resulted in Seamus wearing a giant bowl full of pudding, and scaring off a parliament of owls after sobbing in The Owlery. 

“So what you’re saying,” Hermione says once they’re done, “is that the two of you need to stick together so that you can keep interacting normally with everyone else without having emotional flare-ups, at the expensive of your magic.”

“We’ll still be able to perform it, we just won’t always be able to control it,” Draco agrees.

“Which is better than the alternative,” Potter says quickly when Hermione’s lips tighten. “Professor Hangingbone isn’t here, so there’s no point going to McGonagall until she’s back, because she’s the one who charmed the hat. And if we tell anyone else, the others will think Malfoy’s done it on purpose.”

Draco startles. He hadn’t brought it up on purpose, but that was the reality of his situation. Being allowed back into Hogwarts to finish his education had been a hard won fight, harder still with the condition that he was to stay in line under Headmistress McGongall’s careful supervision. Draco assumed that was why Potter had begun following him around the castle again, taking it upon himself to make Draco his special assignment.

He didn’t know how to feel about the revelation that Potter might have been trying to look out for him.

“Only until Hangingbone returns.” Hermione glares at them. “She’ll be back before we leave for the holidays. Ron and I will help if we can, but I won’t hesitate to say something if it puts your lives in danger.”

Draco smirks. “I didn’t know you cared, Granger.”

+++

They take the idea for its first spin that afternoon. The Hufflepuffs are holding a practice match on the Quidditch pitch in preparation for next week’s game. In defiance of the cold, and the fact that eighth years aren’t allowed to play as there’s no room for it in their schedules, there’s a rather large turnout of students sitting in the bleachers. He and Potter keep a healthy amount of space between them as they walk up the stairs, although there’s the occasional bumping of shoulders, the brushing of arms. Draco feels every sensation like currents under his skin.

He’s also grown use to the way people grow quiet when he enters a space. At least this time Potter is suffering the same. It must be strange, after the news of their Muggle Studies brawl spread around the school, to see the two them walking side by side, voluntarily in each other’s presence with no wands drawn.

The sky remains a stark, grey, backdrop as the players zip through the sky in their yellow jerseys, like bees in a hive. Draco glances for a seat, the corner of his mouth ticking up when Ernie spots him from high in the bleachers and motions with a friendly wave.

Potter’s a bit slower to move over to him than Draco, but they squeeze in and Ernie scoots down to make room.

“You’ve just missed Anders pass the bludger to Wilson. Wilson, clever lad that he is, hit it through his own team’s goal.”

“You’re just mad because he’s the only beater to hold his average the whole season,” Draco pats Ernie’s shoulder with mock sympathy. “If it were you out there, you’d have already been knocked off your broom.”

“But I’d make an excellent keeper. All I’d have to do is stay in one place and handle the balls.”

Draco laughs. “You’re not even trying with that one.”

On his other side Draco feels, rather than hears, Potter chuckle. “Sorry,” he waves his hand to dismiss the action. His smile looks a little tight around the edges. “Just imagining Ernie taking a ball to the face.”

“Ha, ha.” Draco turns to the game, reeling back as the Hufflepuff seeker, Margaret Willison, pulls the end of her broom up to avoid the crowd by a hair’s breadth.

The team have charmed their jerseys different shades of yellow in order to tell each side apart. The Hufflepuff player Draco favors, is a small boy with pin straight dark hair named Amiro, also the team’s seeker. He’s wearing a mustard colored top and so Draco pulls for his side, he and Ernie leaping to their feet when one of Amiro’s teammates manages to whack the quaffle through the hoop so fast, the keeper on the other end actually spins a full 360 degrees.

Ernie throws an arm around Draco’s shoulder, pulling him in as he pumps his other fist. “Yeah! I knew they’d do it! We’re going to crush Gryffindor next week!”

The warm feeling in Draco’s stomach dims and sinks like a stone. Potter’s giving Ernie a very cool look indeed, and despite his efforts to fight it, Draco immediately registers the irritation in his clenched fists and narrowed brows. There’s also a flash of something unexpected, but it’s gone so fast that Draco doesn’t register it. He’s focused on Ernie’s straight white teeth and his blonde hair and his smug happy pleased smile, who does he even think he is with his hands all over—

Draco spins to gape at Potter. “What is your problem?!”

Stubborn as ever, Potter crosses his arms. His jumper is burgundy with a golden stag sewn into the fabric. As his chest swells, the antlers seem to expand with him. “No problems here, just enjoying the game.”

“I’ll bet,” Draco says, his voice heavy with meaning. “I bet you’ll enjoy it even more Potter, if you _relax._ ”

“Um, is everything alright?” Ernie looks uncertain as his eyes dart between them, lowering his arm. “I thought it was a little strange you two were together, but if you’re making a go at friendship, we should try to enjoy the game, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Potter agrees cryptically, lowering himself onto the bleachers to perch on the end of it. “Say Ernie, how’s a hot drink sound? Some butterbeer?” Draco darts to grab Potter’s wrist, but he’s already summoned a house elf. “Two butter beers, Minzy, please. That is, unless Malfoy— would you like one?” Potter offers, turning to him.

Unable to say anything with Ernie looking on, Draco grits his teeth. “No. Thank you.”

The elf is back in a flash, and again, Draco tries to elbow Potter out of the way and take the bottles for himself. At least if he hands it to Ernie, the curse may misconstrue the action and credit it to him. But as usual, Potter’s reflexes are quick, and when Draco move left, he moves right, handing Ernie the uncapped bottle of warm, frothy, liquid over Draco’s head.

He shuts his eyes. Somehow his wand is already in his hand and as he turns his head away, it aims itself at Ernie’s bottle.

Draco watches through his fingers as the Hufflepuff takes a sip. Nothing immediately happens and Ernie takes another long swig before Draco feels his shoulders start to relax.

Then Ernie’s cheeks start to swell. “Whuu—” They never get to hear the rest. Ernie’s tongue falls heavy from his mouth, slopping onto the ground and unfurling itself like a slimy, pink, carpet. Several students scramble out of the way as his tongue keeps rolling further down the tiers.

“Dwayho?!” His eyes are wide and panicked, drool falling from Ernie’s chin due to his inability to shut his mouth.

“I’m sorry, Ernie, I — stop staring and send for Madam Pomphrey!” Draco roars. “We’ll get you fixed up, alright? You’ll be fine.”

Potter’s eyes gleam with furious satisfaction when Draco wheels on him. He shoves his shoulder hard, and Potter stumbles back. “You did that on purpose!”

“Did what?” Potter puts both hands in the air, the picture of innocence. “All I did was offer Ernie a drink. _You’re_ the one who cast that spell and you should be glad, because it’d probably have been twice as strong had _I_ done it.”

“Just as insufferable as always! I should have known.” Potter isn’t the only one with a trick up his sleeve. Draco picked up Potter’s abandoned butter beer from the bench and with a jerk of his arm, splashes it in his overbearing face.

“Enjoy your drink!” he shouts, and turns to follow Madam Pomfrey as she levitates Ernie off the pitch.


	10. / rummy tum tums /

Prompt: 

It was Thomas’ idea to go ice skating.

In Hogsmeade, the open plot of land next to Madam Puddifoot’s shop had been fashioned into a brand new attraction for couples to indulge their romantic overtones. In the warm months, it was to be a lake upon swan boats would glide while cupids sang, surrounded by benches and picnic blankets for those who wanted to eat their cakes and drink their tea while watching the sun on the water. But in the winter, it functioned as a skating rink, ideal for couples’ skating, set amongst a glittering gold gazebo and enchanted hearts that bobbed beneath the surface of the ice.

“She’s all over him!” Pansy juts her chin towards the center of the rink where Parvati has an arm draped over Anthony’s shoulder, giggling nervously as he takes the lead and guides them slowly across the ice. “You know she knows how to skate? She and Padma took lessons! Her uncle negotiated the deal for the rink at Rockefeller Center!”

“How enterprising of her,” Draco muses as he ties his skates. As far as he’s concerned, Anthony Goldstein is the most oblivious wizardhe’s ever met, after Potter. He pulls his laces tighter and makes a concentrated effort not to watch the dark head as it circles the ice. “Apparently the helpless damsel routine hasn’t lost its touch.”

“But that’s not her!” Pansy fumes, crossing her arms. “She’s trying to seduce him with who she thinks he wants, not who she actually is! What’s the point if you can’t keep up the act?”

"I don’t think she’s looking to start a family, Pans, though the Goldstein name wouldn’t be a terrible match. Maybe she just wants a thrill. You know how that goes.”

“She can do whatever she wants, I don’t care,” Pansy grouses. She leans back, studying Draco’s face. “And speaking of thrills, what’s going on with you and Potter? I thought you were attached at the hips and now you’re ignoring him?”

Draco shrugs as he stands, testing his weight. He’s annoyed and he can’t tell if the feel is coming from Potter or himself. He knows Potter knows he’s here by the way he won’t look anywhere in their direction and it rankles his nerves. Without another word to Pansy, he pushes out onto the ice and does a lap around the rink, taking pleasure in the way his blades slice into the surface of the ice and the way the cold air burns his cheeks, whips his hair. There’s a shadow of flying to it if he moves fast enough. Draco angles his body low to reduce drag and increases his speed.

He’s caught up to Potter now, who’s also doing laps, and it’s not long before he matches his speed to Draco, keeping pace as they round another bend. Potter’s slight and his movements are quick and powerful — it’s what what him made a good seeker and makes him unnaturally adept to anything even tangentially related to flying. But this is on the ground, and Draco’s legs are longer, his sense of balance slightly better. They’re neck to neck, other skaters hurrying out of their way until Draco pulls ahead, turns on his heel so that he’s facing Potter and sticks a foot out directly in Potter’s path.

The crash is unavoidable, but what Draco doesn’t count on is Potter grabbing onto his coat as he goes down, the two of them hitting the ice hard and sliding until they skid to a stop at the edge of a snow bank. Draco’s taken the brunt of the fall under Potter’s additional weight, and he lying beneath him, he can hear the way they both gulp lungfuls of air, chests rising and falling.

“Are you alright?” Potter rolls off of him into the snow, still panting as he turns his head to look at Draco.

“Yes, I’m—” There’s a dull ache all down his back, his right shoulder throbbing when he tries to move it. Draco hisses as he sits up. “I’m fine. You?”

“I’ll live,” says Harry with a groan. As if he could do anything but.

“Draco!” Pansy falls to her knees in the snow, strands of dark hair stuck to her face like she’d just been running.“Are you okay? You were going so fast, I thought you’d snap a dozen bones! What were you thinking?” She snaps at Potter with an accusatory glare. “You riled him up on purpose, even though Draco’s been trying so hard—“

“I know,” Potter interrupts. He has the grace to look ashamed of himself. “I know. It was a shitty thing to do.”

He turns to Draco. “I’m sorry. Really.”

Draco suspects the apology is for more than what just happened. He nods, acknowledging Potter’s apology without accepting it. He can sense Potter’s worry and a petty part of himself wants to make him sweat. Even worse, he can sense Potter’s sincerity and he’s afraid if he opens his mouth now, he won’t be able to take back whatever mortifying words might comes out.

“We both may have been a bit… _childish_ ,” Draco says delicately. “You skate rather well, Potter. It takes a lot to be able to keep up with me.”

“Ever the modest one, eh Malfoy?”

“One has to play to their strengths.” Draco smirks. “Since when has modesty ever worked on you?”


	11. / better watch out /

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm behind, but i haven't given up!  
> (heads up, ratings earns itself from this point on)

Prompt: 

In the evenings, the stone walls of the Dungeon are tinged emerald from the ornate lamps that sit on the smooth, dark, side tables and the flames that roar pleasantly in the hearth. The fire is charmed to remain Slytherin green, even without Floo powder, and as it burns, the light creates sinuous shadows in the room that undulate with serpentine curves, thrown into stark relief.

Potter sits in one of the high-backed leather chairs, looking distinctly uncomfortable as the upholstery remains stiff and unyielding under his clenched fingers, squeaking every time he shifts his weight. Draco gives him time to look around, to take in the tall Christmas tree with its silver baubles and fireflies (the dungeons are too damp for fairies), the festive boughs of evergreen that cover almost every surface, dotted with berries and glittering pinecones, and the figurines of ghosts: Christmas Past, Present, and Future, placed above the mantle. Below, several stockings hang. Blaise’s _Santa, I can explain_ stocking i is currently the heaviest.

“It looks different than the last time I was here,” Potter murmurs, almost to himself before turning to look up at Draco. “It’s.. nice.”

Draco’s not fooled for a second. “You don’t have to lie, Potter. I know it’s not the Gryffindor common room, but it suits us just fine.” He gestures half-heartedly to the members of his house lounging about who pretend not to eavesdrop, like Harry Potter sat in the middle of their common room is an everyday occurrence. Let no one say that Slytherins aren’t ones for keeping appearances. “I suggest you get used to it.”

“I’m trying,” Potter says. His fingers drum rhythmically on the arms of the chair. “It’s just a bit, cold?” He screws his face up in thought. “I feel like I’m in a mausoleum.”

“We are under a lake, you know.” Draco casts a warming charm anyway, and does not mention Potter’s casual use of four-syllable words. “I suppose you think the Hufflepuff common room is like being buried alive, or an earth worm, crawling about.”

“When have you been to Hufflepuff?” Potter leans forward, eyebrows drawn. He’s genuinely curious and Draco’s tempted to string out the answer and enjoy Potter’s rapt attention.

“When we were repairing the castle, after I first became friends with—”

Potter’s face clouds over and Draco instantly frowns. Not this again. “He is my friend you know, it’s not as if I’m never going to talk about him. Thanks to your bloody trick, he’s been keeping his distance from me, so don’t start.”

Instead of answering, Potter scoots to the edge of his chair, feet planted wide. “Why won’t you sit down, it feels strange talking to you while you loom over me like that.”

“We’re not staying here.” Draco knows his housemates. Even if he were to throw a _Muffilato_ up, they’d just manage to lip read the conversation. Since Hogwarts was built, generations have passed through this house in hopes of emulating their Founder’s parseltongue skills and as the obsession passed down the line, so did a growing fetish: lips. mouths, tongues. It’s a running gag that one can tell how just how adept their partner is with their tongue by the curve of their cupid’s bow. It’s also made several Slytherins, bi- and tri- lingual, which meant that there was really no means of communication that would be safe for them to have without leaving the room completely. “We’re going to my dorm so we can speak in private.”

“Your room?”

“Yes, Potter, don’t be so puritan about it.” Draco motions for him to get up and he leads him to the corridor at the other end of the room. “I’ll leave the door open if you’re afraid I’m going to ravish you.”

Potter has the nerve to laugh, and it sends warmth through Draco’s chest. “Ravish? Now who sounds like a prude. I’m much more concerned where your lot hides the bodies.”

“Oh, we don’t hide them at all,” Draco pauses to push through a door with a large plate that identifies it as the eighth-years dormitory. “We string them up like garland over the mantle during the rest of the year. The best get mounted like trophies.”

With the door closed, Draco moves to stand with Potter on the threshold. There are four king sized four poster beds, each with their velvet hangings drawn back and the sheets clean and pressed. He, Blaise, Theo, and Greg had been the only boys who’d chosen to come back after the war, but mid-way through the first part of term, Greg had buckled under the pressure. The loss of Crabbe had hit him especially hard, and unlike Draco, who’d had a year to make some sort of peace with it during the castle’s reconstruction, the wounds for Greg were still fresh and bleeding.That left one empty bed in which the three of them used as a catch all — games of exploding snap, laying out clothes, even the occasional pillow fort, which was a fact sworn to secrecy and never to leave the room.

Potter steps forward with a curious sort of reverence that Draco chalks up to Potter’s general curiosity of his surroundings. Draco tries to view the room through Potter’s eyes, like the common room, his heart skipping a traitorous beat when Potter approaches the bed on the far end. His fingers splay over the sheets. “This is your bed.” The statement books no room for argument.

“Ye—” Draco clears his throat and tries again. “Yes.”

Potter nods. Sitting on the edge, he toes off his trainers, then scoots towards the headboard.

The sight of Potter on his bed does things to Draco’s head. They’re alone in his room and suddenly it feels as if the entire atmosphere changes around them, a tension that fills the air. Draco can feel the way his body responds to the idea, the arousal that makes his prick swell in this trousers.

“Budge over, Potter.” Draco licks his lips as he removes his dress shoes and neatly slides them with one stockinged foot under the bed. He waits until he’s sitting on the bed to remove his robe, hoping the room is too dim to make the press against his zip noticeable.

So far, so good. Potter looks at home as he stretches to make himself comfortable. Broad shoulders strain the fabric of his jumper, fit to his actual frame unlike the oversized bags he’d worn throughout the years, and Draco fights to keep his eyes from lingering for too long. They’re just two people having an innocent conversation. Draco ought to be able to handle that much.

Potter cups his cheek, his elbow digging into one of several squishy pillows. “So you said you wanted to talk in private?”

Fuck. Dark and lean, Potter looks positively edible. Doing his best to stay on track, Draco nods. “I’ve been thinking about our situation. How going out of our way to be nice to each other hasn’t changed the effects.”

Potter hums in agreement. After the incident at the skating rink, they’d called a truce of sorts, making efforts to work together in class, pass each other items, and be altogether pleasant. While it’d kept them from any kind of emotional outbursts, it’d had a less than stellar effect on their magic. In advanced transfiguration, Draco’s mushroom had not transformed into a brolly, but instead stretched the mushroom’s stalk until it threatened to break through the ceiling, all the while fat drops of rain splashing upon them.

“Being nasty to each other hasn’t particularly gotten us anywhere either,” Potter says. “Even before the curse.”

“If this is where I’m supposed to start kissing your arse because we’ve managed to go five minutes without socking each other, you’re going to leave quite disappointed.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, Malfoy,” Potter give him cheeky grin. “I may not leave at all. Your bed’s much more comfortable than mine.”

Draco flushes from the base of his neck to the tip of his ears. Was he imagining it or was Potter flirting with him? “That not possible,” Draco leans forward so that a lock of pale hair fall into his eyes. He bites his lip. “The Headmistress bought all the mattresses wholesale for a reduced price.”

“Oh..?” Potter says, scratching his cheek.

“Mm. And unfortunately for you, my bed is invitation only.”Draco sat back up. “But more to the point — if being nice to each other and being naughty doesn’t work, then we have to think of an activity that combines them.”

“Combines them?” Potter repeats, leaning up on his elbow. “You mean like together?”

“Thank you Potter for repeating exactly what I said right back to me,” Draco scoffs. “Is your animagus a parrot?” The withering look Potter gives him makes Draco smirk. “I just mean,” he continues, “that we’ve been looking at things in terms of black and white. Maybe we should be examining the gray area.”

He gives the words a few moments to hover between them for dramatic effect. When the beat ends and Potter still looks as if he’s trying to solve a very difficult math problem, Draco runs a flustered hand through his hair. Potter’s eyes follow the movement with what appears to be great interest. Draco watches as he licks his lips. Potter’s cupid bow is extremely well-defined.

His lips form a single word and Draco squints. “What?”

“I said, sex.”

Draco’s brows nearly disappear into his hairline. “ _What_?!”

“Sex is a grey area, Malfoy. Think about it: it can be naughty and it can be nice all at once. It’s a way for people to communicate physically. It’s enjoyable?” Potter lists his points with growing fervor. “It could be a way to curb the need for satisfaction we feel when the curse flairs up!”

“…and it might even be a way to calibrate our magic,” Draco says, shaking his head as if in a daze. Was he really suggesting they fool around in order to preserve their magical ability? _Not fool around_ , a voice in Draco’s head clarified. **_Sex_**. _Sex with Harry Potter_.

“Of course, it would just be until Hangingbone returns.”

Draco looks somewhere off to Potter’s left as the words leave his mouth, more to gauge Potter’s response than to set any ground rules. Just because it was his idea doesn’t mean Potter actually _wants_ to go along with it. There were plenty of girls and guys, Draco suspects, vying for the opportunity to have Potter press them into the mattress. He can only imagine the damage it would do to Potter’s reputation if anyone were to find out he was shagging a former Death Eater. Not to mention the _other_ pressing issue. The one Draco felt was very important to address if they were going to be get to know each other from the waist down.

“Alright.”

“Alright, what?” Dracorepeats, roused from his thoughts. He takes a good look around. Sometime during his tangent, Potter spelled the bed-hangings shut.

“Just until Hangingbone gets back,” Potter murmurs, his voice thick. He stares at Draco from under impossibly long lashes and this close up, his eyes smolder. There’s a dull roar in Draco’s ears, the anticipation stuttering his breath as Potter’s hand slides over his waist, digs into the flesh of his side.

It’s like his touch trips a wire, unleashing something wild in Draco that has his hands on Potter at once, rucking up his jumper to pull the tails from his trousers.Draco’s fingers slide under his shirt to stroke the hard muscle of Potter’s stomach that clenches at his touch, breathless when Potter pulls him down on top of him. Draco straddles Potter’s leg, ruts his hip so that Potter can feel the swell of his prick, hard and insistent against his thigh.

“Malfoy…” Potter’s hands pull his hips down, holds Draco in place as he rocks up, in search of friction. The hard line of Potter’s erection drags along Draco’s leg, the shape of it alone making him salivate. A warm hand moves under Draco’s jumper to splay over his back, down the back of his trousers to grope and squeeze his arse. Draco keens, angling down so that his prick thrusts against Potter again and again.

“Fuck, wait.. wait.” Withdrawing a shaky hand, Potter guides Draco to straddle both his legs, so that when he arches, a delicious frisson of heat shoots down Draco’s spine as their cocks move together. Potter shudders. “Shit.”

Draco braces a hand on Potter’s shoulder, breath hitching as he pressing it into the mattress, as his other hand fists the sheets. He leans forward over Potter as he ruts in earnest. His eyes sweep Potter’s face before settling on his mouth, his moist lips parted, so close they breath each other’s exhales as they pant.

“I’m close,” Draco rasps. He wants to take his prick out so he can get off properly. Even better, he wants Potter’s out — to feel the solid weight of his prick in his hand, to feel the precum dribble from the tip and slick it up, nice and wet with his fingers. To press the pad of his thumb into the slit the way Draco does when he’s alone. But there’s no time for that as Potter buries his head in Draco’s neck, and the feel of his soft lips, the hot puffs of air and the knowledge that Potter is just as turned on, that Draco is the one who’s made him so hard, is too much and the coil wound tight in his belly, snaps, hot and dizzying.

Draco comes, jerking with each pulse of his release as he groans, low in his throat until he’s he spent, and sags. Potter’s moist breath cools the flush of his neck., the prickle of sweat at his nape. When his heartbeat steadies, Draco pulls back just enough to look down.

“Did you come?”

Potter nods, his eyes still closed. “Yeah.”

Draco exhales, slowly. He’d been so caught up in chasing his own pleasure, he/’d completely missed it. He’s strangely disappointed, but Potter’s wash of satisfaction — and the damp spot on the front of his trousers — doesn’t allow the feeling to linger. And while the sensation of cooling spunk should be unpleasant, Draco’s chuffed to know he lasted longer. The whole affair couldn’t have taken more than a few minutes at best, but as he rolled off of Potter, Draco felt floaty, languid, and at peace in a way he hadn’t felt in days, if not _weeks_.

Reaching down, Draco slips his wand from his holster and spells himself clean. Rolls his neck and feels the bones click. “Well, Potter,” Draco purrs. “I assume you can find your own way back?”

Beside him, Potter’s eyes fly open. “Seriously?”

Draco turns onto his side and snuggles into his pillows, already feeling sleep settle over him, pulling at him down into its depths. “Clean yourself up,” he mumbles as his eyes close. “And don’t get caught.”


	12. / when you're awake /

Prompt: 

“Please. Someone cast a bubble-head charm and put me out of my misery.” Pansy slumps dramatically, cradling her head in Draco’s shoulder with a long suffering sigh. “I hate Christmas.” 

Draco continues buttering his toast. He’s in good spirits and awoke this morning feeling practically ravenous. He’s currently on his fourth slice, and if the combined Malfoy-Black blood didn’t ensure that he’d always remain svelte, Draco thinks he’d have reason to worry. “You do not. You love every excuse it provides you to decorate based on a theme.”

“Well, yes. But I hate it  _ now _ ,” insists Pansy, her mouth pinched. She points above them where Peeves continues to rattle his spectral chains, cackling as a group of third-year girls run from him covering their ears. “Why hasn’t anyone stopped him yet!?”

“Or them,” Theo says through a mouthful of eggs, directing his gaze at the miniature fleet of reindeer Professor Flickwick has charmed to soar above their heads, sleigh bells jingling merrily. “I think Peeves considers them competition. Who can spread the most cheer.”

“More like who can make the most noise,” Pansy sniffs. She places painted fingers to Theo’s chin and turns his head away from her. “And yet I can hear you masticate as if you cast a Sonorous on yourself.”

Draco snorts into his tea, doing his best to drowned out their bickering, the bells, and the chains as he keeps his eyes trained on the double doors. He expects Potter chose to sleep in this morning, as rested from the previous night’s activities as Draco is. He’d tried to sense Potter when he’d first sat down, but all Draco found in return was a general sense of relaxation, and that had been good enough for him.

Now, as Potter enters the Hall, his messy hair tumbled in every direction and his robes rumpled, Draco’s not so sure.

Potter scans the eighth year table until his eyes catch Draco’s and he beelines towards him. Several people try to flag Potter down on his way, greeting him with casual waves and shouts of  _ good morning _ , which he sheepishly returns as he attempts to cross the room. He’s alone, though Draco assumes Weasley and Granger will be along to monopolize him shortly, but as Potter takes the empty seat to his right, Draco can’t help the warm feeling that washes over him, aware of the envious eyes watching them.

“Hey.” Potter shoots him a shy smile before pulling his glass close to fill it with pumpkin juice. He’s wearing a maroon jumper today that somehow makes his bottle-green eyes pop even more in contrast, and Draco feels his heart skip. He can remember staring into them last night, rolling his hips again and again to feel Potter’s cock pressed against his own.

Draco shakes off the sudden wave of arousal. “Morning, Potter. Bit of a late start for you, isn’t it? Spend the wee hours of the morning skulking about the castle again?”

“That’s about the time you wake to iron your robes, isn’t it?” Potter asks innocently. “But you must be feeling daring this morning to let us see you with a hair out of place.”

A quick pat to his head assures Draco that his hair is just as artfully tousled as he intended it to be. Potter had seemed fond enough of it last night. “Bite your tongue, I look as immaculate as ever. Just because no one’s ever taught you a grooming charm.”

A burst of laughter causes them both to look up.

“You two are getting along well,” Parvati says, spooning a bit oatmeal. She uses it to point to Pansy from the other side of the table. “They’re together almost as much as we are these days.”

Pansy nods, her lips mischievous. “Practically tied at the waist.” She shakes her head. “The hip? Whatever.”

“Well, I think it’s a good thing,” Granger’s hair is bushy as ever as she settles on the other side of Potter. Her sparkly red headband catches the light. “I suppose it was bound to happen in one way or another.”

“What is it McGonagall’s always going on about? Inter-house cooperation?” Draco agrees, grateful for Granger’s tactful assist. “If Potter’s finally come around to my glowing personality and insists on befriending me, I suppose I’ll have to be a good sport about it.”

“Truly a sacrifice on your part,” Potter says wryly.

“Anyone up for a skate later?” Seamus Finnegan calls from further down the table. “We had to cut it short last time but now that Harry and Malfoy are mates, we don’t have to worry about cracked skulls!”

“Oi!” Weasley shouts, though he’s smiling. “That’s my best mate you’re talking about it. And his head is as hard as ever, with or without the ferret around.”

“Ron, c’mon,” Potter shakes his head, pink rising in his cheeks. “Don’t call him that.”

“It’s fine, Potter,” Draco’s finished his toast. He dabs at his mouth with a napkin. They’re nowhere as nice as the damask ones his mother uses at the Manor, but catch every crumb like an  _ Accio _ . “I don’t think the weasel has the brains to memorize too many things at once. Let’s not overwhelm him with names.” He ignores Potter’s frown, his exasperation. “Besides, I’ve made plans for the morning with Ernie.”

“Ernie?” Turns to face on the bench to face him. “I thought he was still on bedrest?”

“He is,” Draco answers slowly, wondering why he feels a prickle of anxiety. “But he’s getting behind on his classes thanks to you, so I’m going to help him revise in the meantime.”

Potter leans in, lowering his voice. “Don’t you remember what Hermione said? We have to spend time together to offset the curse. Are you sure it’s a good idea to bugger off to McMillan’s dorm after.. Everything?” There’s definitely an odd lilt at the end of his words that wasn’t there before.

Draco narrows his eyes, studying Potter’s face. He’s avoiding Draco’s eyes, but his mouth set in a stubborn line. It’d be easy for Draco to place his hand on Potter’s cheek, to close the distance between their lips.

He leans back. “I remember perfectly fine. I think you’re the one who’s forgotten -- last night,” Draco says with meaning, “-- should be enough to tide us over for now. It’s just a few hours.”

“What about at night, when we’re sleeping?” Potter insists on invading Draco’s space, however subtle as he slides closer to him on the bench. Draco eyes flit around, but no one seems to be watching them as Potter continues. “You kicked me out last night but I think we ought to try sleeping in the same bed. Just to see how it affects things. Maybe it will-- why are you mad?!”

“I’m not!” Draco says through clenched teeth, turning to face forward again. Fucking Potter. He should have known he’d have some kind of ulterior motive for insisting they spend time together. But to suggest something like this just because he wasn’t able to have his way last night, was too much.

“Malfoy, I can sense your moods, remember? Which means the connection is already on the fritz again. What are you so pissy about?”

“Nothing!” Draco shouts, and this time, his outburst draws eyes, including those of a concerned Granger and a suspicious Pansy. He can feel his magic rising in his core like sickly bile, and Draco does his best to taper it down. If he does something now, it’ll affect Potter too. Thankfully studying with Ernie means that he won’t be using his magic for anything more than note taking -- he can deal with a haywire quill if it meant not causing a scene.

Potter took a deep breath. “Hey. Forget it. Maybe, you can come by the Tower when you’re done?” He runs an errant hand through his hair and tugs at a knot. “I’m not up for skating. We can just hang out or something.”

“Yes. Alright.” Draco purses his lips. He wants to ask why Potter is being so forward, but figures now is not the time to push his luck. He’s trying to get along with Potter, be something close to friends, even if it’s just for appearances. Draco rises from the table. “I’ll come by later. And I expect hot chocolate.”

Above their heads, Peeves continues to rattle his chains, cackling one last time before swooping through the opens doors to take his mischief elsewhere.


	13. / build a toyland /

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me which Spice Girls these five are, because Hermione can not be Baby.

Prompt: 

The smooth, supple leather of Draco’s satchel folds easily as he lifts the flap to slip a few more things inside. He’s got a brand new quill for Parvati as well as a bottle of color changing ink that cost extra to have flown in by special order mail owl. They’re already wrapped, all things considered, but Draco has more than enough other presents to make his afternoon plans necessary: a set of earrings for Pansy in the shape of her favorite constellation, the embedded stones charmed to twinkle and glow at dusk. Muggle pop music on vinyl for Blaise to add to the collection no one is supposed to know about. He’s even figured out Ernie’s present while crawling back through the Hufflepuff’s tunnel, praying the dirt would not leave grass stains on his robes: season tickets to see the Tornados, along with a new broom kit. He’d have to pick that up the next time he managed a trip into Hogsmeade, but he’d managed to order the tickets through owl with Pansy’s jewelry.

Items secured, Draco grips his wrapping paper (a tasteful roll of deep green with a hint of silver sparkle), a roll of ribbon, and heads for Gryffindor Tower.

“Have fun,” Blaise sing songs as the damp stone reforms at Draco’s back.

It’s not until once again, Draco stands gazing up at the portrait of The Fat Lady, his palms sweaty, that he stops to think about just how ludicrous this idea truly is. He’s about to willingly enter the lion’s den, surround himself with a room full of brash, reckless Gryffindors to something as cozy as wrap presents together. There was offering the proverbial olive branch and then there was offering oneself to be eaten alive.

Oh well, Draco thinks, as he clears his throat and offers the password Potter had given him as they parted that morning. “Peppermint Toad!”

“There’s no need to shout, dear,” The Fat Lady scolds as she swings forward to let him in. Draco doesn’t have the time to explain that it’s nerves, that normally he’s very well-mannered when he’s not scared out of his wits or under the thrall of a genocidal madman and his own childish delusions of grandeur. Unlike the last time Draco was here, the Gryffindor common room is a riot of activity and almost every head swivels to look at him as he crosses into their territory.

Keeping his chin raised, Draco sets his shoulders and wills himself not to quake. “I’m looking for Potter.”

A fifth year boy with a loose tie, sneers. “I’ll bet you are. But you’re not welcome here!”

“Yeah, Malfoy,” adds another boy with a slight overbite. “Get out of here before we tell the Headmistress!”

“Tell the Headmistress what?” says the cool, confident voice of Ginny Weasley. “That he’s threatened you all with a roll of Christmas paper? Threatened to hogtie Harry with ribbon?” She snorts. “At least Malfoy’s got gifts to wrap - now that Marie’s dumped you, your shopping list is lighter, isn’t it Simon?”

Recently-dumped Simon glares. “Watch it, Weasley. Just because you dated Potter doesn’t make you special.”

“Imagine that,” Ginny rolls her eyes. “And here I thought my entire existence depended on what you think of me.” She turns to Draco, a hand on her hip, fiery red hair falling around her shoulders. “Harry mentioned something about you dropping by, but I didn’t think you’d be brave enough to actually do it.”

Draco feels the tell-tale muscle in his jaw, twitch. “You know me,” he drawls. “I’m just full of surprises.”

“Right.” Without another word she turns and stomps in the direction of the dormitories. “Harry!” Draco winces as she continues to shout, disappearing from sight.

The few moments that she’s gone feel like an eternity as Draco grips his satchel, entirely too conscious of his posture and his surroundings.

“Malfoy!” Potter sounds breathless, his arms full of paper and bows as he rounds the corner with Ginny, Weasley, and Granger in tow. “Sorry, we got caught up talking about some stuff. Over here.” He leads them towards the squishy sofa and low table in front of the fireplace. It’s occupied by two second years girls who depart without a word at Potter’s arrival, one grateful smile from him enough to send them giggling to the other side of the room. Draco drops his bag onto the table with a thud.

Weasley scowls. “We’re not holding you hostage you know.”

“How about some cushions,” Granger interrupts, elbowing him with a sharp look as she summons them with her wand. They settle on the floor while the Weasley girl throws herself onto the couch, socked feet dangling over the arm of the chair.

Draco feels a bit of the tension bleed from his shoulders when Potter makes no qualms about sitting next to him, their knees knocking as he settles into a comfortable position. He leans forward to catch Draco’s eye. “Are you any good at this?”

“Wrapping presents?” Draco bites back a grin. At the Manor, the elves were in charge of wrapping all the gifts. However Pippi, one of the elves who’d spoiled Draco the most, allowed him to fold the sharp creases when his parents were not looking, to hold the corners while she performed sticking charms. He supposes it’s one of the reasons he loves folding paper so much. “I manage.”

Potter shakes his head as if he can read Draco’s mind, “Your house elves did it all, didn’t they? Don’t tell Hermione, even if they liked it. She expects you to be crap. It might be fun to throw her off.”

“I expect  _ you _ to be crap at it,” Draco smirks, as he points to the roll of gaudy red paper Potter begins to unroll. “Are those lions  _ actually _ roaring?” 

“I told you it was a bad choice,” Weasley laughs. He has a pair of slippers on the table before him, sizing up how much paper they require. “There’s house pride and then there’s just plain obnoxious. One year, mum had a roll of paper with festive gnomes dressed in nothing but Santa Hats and Poinsettia flowers.”

“Fred and George charmed them to burp the carols,” his sister picks up, laughing at the memory. “Mum was so mad, she made them weed the entire garden before she’d let them having any pudding.”

Draco ducks his head, as the others smile, slowly removing the gifts he needs to wrap from his bag. He remembers Fred Weasley. This is only the second Christmas since his death -- a death Draco, no matter how roundabout, had a hand in. Even though he’s formally apologized, both in letter and in person, the cowardly side of himself would rather avoid the awkward reminder. His presence is likely reminder enough.

“Is that The Spice Girls?” Granger points to the topmost album in Draco’s stack. “That’s their new record isn’t it? I’d meant to pick up a copy over the summer.”

“I didn’t know you were a fan,” Potter’s face lights up like the tree behind him and Draco feels his breath catch. He looks from Potter’s face back down to the album, flustered as heat rises in his face.

“Ah, it’s for Blaise. He collects albums.”

“I see. You might like them, as far as muggle groups go. They’re very catchy.” Potter smiles at him, a true heartstopping smile that Draco suspects might actually be the death of him if he manages to survive the afternoon. “You’re definitely a Posh.”

Draco doesn’t know what any of it means and his stomach is squirming too much to process it. He nods dumbly, concentrates on his cutting charm as he snips a perfectly square piece of paper to wrap his the record in.

Hermione laughs as both Weasley siblings look at each other. “A posh?” Weasley repeats, looking down his long noise at Malfoy as if to assess him. “I mean he  _ is _ posh, but is that a real musical thing?”

“Don’t worry,” she says, patting her boyfriend’s shoulder. “It’ll all make sense. You’re a Ginger.”

“Oh yeah!” Potter jumps to his feet as Weasley sputters. “I almost forgot! I’ll be right back.” Draco watches as Potter climbs through the Portrait Hole as if he’s being chased. When he turns back, both Weasleys and Granger are staring him in various states of curiosity and discomfort.

“So,” Granger begins, doing a terrible job at faking her casual tone. “You and Harry are… getting along?”

“Yes?” Draco can feel his hackles rising. “That’s what you’ve told us we had to do in order for--” He pauses, his eyes darting to the smaller Weasley who stares back at him challengingly from her perch. “In order for us to work out or difference,” he finishes stiffly.

“And differences are all you’re working out?” Draco’s head snaps to the Weasley across from him, who is watching him with knowing blue eyes. Strangely it’s his eyes that remind Draco that for all their class differences, the Weasleys are still a part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, a pureblood family through and through, with the old magic that runs through their veins to awaken all kinds of latent gifts and clairvoyance. Draco brings a veil down over his most Potter-centric thoughts just in case.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Draco answers. “But it might do you better to ask Potter, than me. All I can offer is that you’re cutting way more paper than you need, and if you were to just fold that corner over the other, your wrapping wouldn’t be anywhere near as abysmal.”

“I--” Weasley looks down as the mass of snowflake covered paper he’s crushed up and tied with a bow. “Oi, I never claimed to be good at this!”

“And your sticking charms would be more efficient if you applied one to the center first,” Draco continues turning to Granger. Watching her fumble was giving him a headache. Potter had better come back soon or he’d unwrap all their presents and fix them himself. “If you want the folds to lay properly, you’ll need to start again. Here, let me show you.”

A few minutes later, Potter returns: he’d ducked down to the kitchens to bring them all piping hot mugs of hot chocolate, decorated lovingly by the elves with marshmallows that looked like snowmen, smiling up at them as they drank. There were sprigs of cinnamon in each cup and perfectly sweetened.

“Is it to your liking, Master Malfoy?”

Draco nearly chokes, coughing as he tried not to dribble chocolate down his chin. “Piss off,” he wheezed. Potter’s face looks strangely fond as he passes Draco a napkin. He dabs at his mouth and when he’s confident he’s done making an arse of himself, he tosses his blonde hair back to great effect. 

“You talk a big game now Potter, but you’ve never seen me tie a proper bow.”


	14. / toddle and coo /

Prompt: 

The gift wrapping party goes on into the afternoon and the early part of the evening. Afterwards Weasley ditches his chess set for the new miniature Quidditch game his brother, the Dragon Keeper if Draco remembers correctly, and even Granger joins them, watching from the side as they break into two teams for a series of matches. Someone brings fresh pumpkin pasties and biscuits up from the kitchens, and the crackle of the fire fills the room with a profound warmth that penetrates the heart, sinking bone deep.

It’s with great reluctance when Draco finally rises onto his knees, stretching his arms over his head. He has to get back to the dungeons soon for a quick shower before bed. If he’s lucky he’ll avoid Theo and Blaise, who are just as bad as Pansy when it comes to gossip and will undoubtedly want an account of his entire afternoon.

“Thank you for having me,” Draco says with complete sincerity, looking at each Gryffindor in turn. He hadn’t expected to have as good a time as he did, but he won’t be as foolish as to lie about it. Draco’s eyes linger on Potter, who wears an unreadable expression. “I had a really good time.”

“It wasn’t bad,” Weasley nods, and he sounds just as surprised as the others look to hear him say it. “See you around, Malfoy.”

“Goodnight, Malfoy,” Granger echoes. Her eyes dart from Potter back to him. She bites her lip as if she wants to say something but thinks better of it, linking her arm though Weasley’s sister’s and heading for the girls dorm.

Rising to his feet, Draco picks up Parvati’s gift from the pile of presents he’s finished wrapping. There’s one he has to deliver to Ravenclaw for Lovegood, along with a strongly worded letter to pass along to Padma Patil, and Ernie’s tickets, but the rest are all Slytherin. In front of the fire, he finds Parvati’s stocking and drops her gift inside. When he turns around again, Potter is right behind him.

Before Draco can say anything, Potter opens his mouth. “I know it upset you this morning, and if you really don’t want to, I won’t pressure you, but you don’t have to leave.” In the light of the fire Potter’s stare seems to grow in intensity, eyes like bottled flames. “I don’t want you to leave.”

I don’t want to leave either. The words rise unbidden and traitorous to the front of Draco’s mind. He can feel Potter’s nerve, his hope. Draco thinks the thrill of excitement and the butterflies in his stomach are all his, though. Potter’s words are vague -- an invitation but nothing more, placing the decision in Draco’s hands. He’s just not sure that even if he accepts, that it might mean what he _wants_ it to mean. Wanting anything from Potter might be the most frustrating thing of all.

Still, the words are out of Draco’s mouth before he can put sense to them. Gryffindor recklessness seems to be catching. Perhaps he’s picked it up through osmosis alone.

“I suppose we could test your mattress.”

Potter face turns a brilliant pink. “Excuse me?”

“Your mattress?” Draco fights to keep his voice steady as he feels his own face heat. “You said mine was nicer, but I have yet to compare the two.”

“O-oh, yeah. Right. Okay.” Potter’s eyes still seem a bit glazed as he leads Draco towards his dorm. They’re at the top of a set of steep stairs, with an excellent view of the grounds through the high, round windows. Potter opens the door to a circular room with four four-poster beds similar to Draco’s own room. It’s a bit cozier, a little messier with the open trunks and owl cages and robes draped over every surface, but there’s a homey quality to it like the rest of the tower that Draco associates with Potter.

“Where are the others?” Draco asks in a low voice, indicating the other beds.

“Seamus and Dean are still in Hogsmeade, Neville’s gone to his Gram’s for the weekend, and Ron’s gone off with Hermione, I think.” Draco didn’t think it was possible for Potter’s face to get redder, but somehow he accomplishes it. “I might have… asked them all to make themselves scarce.”

Draco bites his lip. He doesn’t know what to think of that. His heart and his libido are running away with their own thoughts as it is. “Tell them you needed time alone to wank or something?”

“Or something,” Potter laughs. “Pervert.”

“I’m not the one bringing _guys_ back to his room to test his bed for lumps.” He emphasizes the word, hoping Potter will catch the hint so that one of them can brooch the topic. While Blaise has stopped shoving calendar pages under Draco’s nose, he doesn’t know anything about where on the spectrum Potter’s sexuality lies. He’s had his suspicions, but Draco also knows that when one is turned on, it’s easy to make whatever’s available work if your imagination is vivid enough.

Potter stops at a four poster with drawn curtains and Draco wants to laugh - their beds were both in the far corner of their respective rooms. No wonder Potter was able to pick his out with such certainty.

“This is me.” Potter slips out of his trainers and sits on the edge with a bounce. “Feel for yourself.”

Carefully Draco slips his shoes off and puts his bag down. He’s shrunk the presents and slipped them inside for safekeeping, a cushioning charm on Blaise’s records so that they don’t bend. Draco can feel the weight of Potter’s gaze as he approaches the bed. Wipes his damp palms on his expensive slim-fit trousers. Feels his cock twitch.

“It’s not--” Draco’s swallows his tongue. Potter’s hand is suddenly heavy and warm on his cheek, fingers caressing his skin as Potter leans in close. Their foreheads rest against each other.

“Malfoy...”

His breath ghosts across Draco’s lips, making him shiver with anticipation. He feels like his whole body is on fire, waiting for Potter to touch him. Wanting to touch him just as much. Draco knows he’d only have to tilt his head to press their mouths together, to taste him. Wants to run his tongue along the seam of Potter’s lips and steal inside.

He doesn’t allow either of them to close the distances. Instead Draco dips his head and brushes his lips to Potter’s neck.

Every lantern in the room goes out at once, plunging them into darkness.

“What--?”

“Sorry,” Potter says, his voice strangled. His hand grips Draco’s bicep. “I didn’t expect you to do that and my neck is a little..”

“..Sensitive?” Draco increases the pressure of his lips, teasing with little nips that he soothes with the pad of his tongue as Potter trembles. Moves his hand from Draco’s arm to his waist. The darkness of the room makes Draco feel braver as he pushes Potter back onto his bed and straddles his lap. Potter’s bites out a command and the curtains full shut around them, enclosing them in the space of Potter’s bed, as he bucks his hips up.

“Haah, stop,” Draco guides his hips back down to the bed. His fingers slide down, down, until they splay over Potter’s bulge. He strokes it gingerly, hears Potter’s hiss in the darkness as he tightens his grip. “Can I touch you?” Draco whispers.

“You’re already touching me,” Potter breathes, amused. “You don’t have to ask, Malfoy. I want it. I want to watch you do it.”

Draco licks his lips. Lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah, me too.”

He gets the zip on Potter’s jeans down in record time, massages the shape of Potter’s prick through the cotton of his pants. He’s long and thick, responsive to Draco’s touch in the way his stomach flutters when Draco slips his fingers under the elastic to grip him properly. Potter cries out, a guttural groan that makes Draco’s own pants tighten as he traces his fingers over the veins.

“Haaa, Lumos,” Potter’s panting now, a small ball of light illuminating them just enough so that Draco can take in the flushed head, the precum at the tip. He touches a finger to it and a string of wet comes away when he pulls it back.

“Fuck..” Draco takes Potter into his hand, whispers the wandless spell every boy to come through Hogwarts has passed along. Using the flat of his hand, Draco slicks Potter up, thrilling in how _hard_ Potter is as Draco works his fist to bring him off properly. Potter’s hand finds its way into his Draco’s hair, threading his fingers to grip lightly as Draco kisses along the flat of his stomach, the jut of his hip.

“Oh fuck,” Potter begins to match Draco’s strokes, rolling his hips with growing urgency as Draco twists his wrists on the downstroke, rubs his thumb over the slit. He feels daring and wonton in this space of theirs, Potter’s moans spurring him on. Draco scoots back on his knees and buries his nose in the curls at the base of Potter’s cock, presses the flat of his tongue to the fine trail of hair that leads to his belly button.

“I’m cumming,” Potter gasps, “I’m cumming, Draco.” His spunk splashes wetly over Draco’s fingers, covering the back of his hand to pool along his flushed skin. Draco’s mouth falls open as he catches his breath, curling the fingers of his free hand in Potter’s sheets to ground himself. It’s hard to ignore the way his name on Potter’s lips sends a jolt of heat to his belly.

Slowly, Draco unfurls his fingers and rises onto his knees, making sure Potter’s eyes are locked with his when he lifts his wet hand to his mouth.

“S’not bad,” Draco laughs quietly, licking along his digits. He falls onto his back next to Potter with a sigh. He’s so hard, he could probably hammer nails with his cock at this point.

“Come here,” Potter growls. “Wanna do you too.”

Draco shakes his head. “Not tonight.” It’s silly, but Draco feels content bringing Potter off. He’d wanted to do it, got off on the way Potter had squirmed and panted, the way he’d tasted. Draco was already anticipating the next time. The chance to feel the weight of Potter’s prick on his tongue. “You don’t have to.”

Potter rises onto his elbow to protest and Draco silences him with the motion of his hips as he lifts them to open his fly. Draco bites his lip, feeling his heart race.

“But you can watch if you want.”


	15. / litte tin horns /

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still playing catch up!  
> Thank for sticking with me if you're still reading ❤️  
> I appreciate it so much.

Prompt: 

Sneaking back to one’s dorm is a lot easier with an invisibility cloak. Honestly, Draco doesn’t know how he’s survived so long without one. Why weren’t wizards everywhere mass producing them, charming fine cuts of cloth from this point forward invisibility so that they could be purchased for exorbitant amounts of money?

Potter really has all the luck, Draco thinks to himself as he carefully places the cloak into his bag. He’s meeting the Chosen One in Hogsmeade this morning to finish their last minute Christmas shopping, as well as to test the effects of the curse. Hangingbone is due back sometime next week. With luck, Draco thinks as he spells the laces of his boots back through the holes, they won’t have to say anything to her at all.

The sky is a brilliant blue overhead, the sun making the freshly packed snow sparkle as Draco enters the village, careful to avoid stepping into puddles of slushy ice and the busking wizards with their lutes and violins as they sing cheery renditions of classic carols for knuts.

The shops hum with activity this close to Christmas, shoppers bustling from store to store with their bags floating before them, boughs of holly draped around their shoulders, drinking warmed bottles of butterbeer, children enchanting sparkling bobbles to dance in the air before them as they eat peppermint flavored ice creams. Draco pays a merchant for a rolled newspaper full of roasted chestnuts sprinkled with salt and cinnamon and drizzled with honey. He’ll knows for a fact that Potter’s sweet tooth is as bad as his own, and figures they can share the snack between them.

Potter’s not standing outside  _ Billywig Books _ where they agreed to meet, but is instead admiring the display window of  _ The Discerning Wizard _ , his nose practically pressed to the glass. The twinkling lights woven into the evergreen that decorate the store’s exterior call attention to the serious look on Potter’s face.

It’s hard not to just stand and admire someone like Harry Potter. Even with the frown and the slight slouch as he buries his hands in his pockets, Potter cuts a striking figure. It’s not just his dark hair and bright eyes - it’s his broad shoulders, the dip of his waist, the way his denim hugs the curve of his arse just right -- he seems to exude a brooding confidence, a strength, that draws the eye. Draco notices as others stand on Potter’s perimeter, gesturing to him when they think he’s not looking, debating whether to approach him for a picture. It’s something he’ll probably have to deal with his whole life, the public scrutinizing his every move to filter his actions through the lens of their own morals.

On the other hand, Potter could just be checking his reflection.

“What are we looking at,” Draco whispers, bumping his shoulder against Potter’s as he joins him in front of the window.

Potter jerks violently, nearly upsetting the nuts in Draco’s hand as he turns to face him.

“Oh, uh, hey!” He says a bit too cheerful, his eyes wide behind the frame of his glasses. Draco’s seen horses during a thunderstorm that looked less spooked than Potter does in this moment.

“Hello..” says Draco, slowly. He offers the nuts with a raised eyebrow. A little girl races past them on the sidewalk, chasing a small crup who’s gotten off its leash.

Potter’s face softens. He takes one and pops it into his mouth. “Sorry,” he shoots Draco a grateful look as he takes a few more. “I’ve forgotten what it’s like when Hogsmeade gets busy like this. I’ve been kind of on edge.”

Draco nods. He can feel it too. His magic crackles like static electricity, making the fine hair of his arms stand on end, even beneath the sleeves his turtleneck. “That’s because you haven’t done anything more productive than fix your hair in a store window.” He reaches up to pat Potter’s curls for emphasis, lingering just a little before letting go. They’re in public, after all. “It’ll never work, give up.”

“Never,” Potter grins, and it’s a real one now. “Now where do you want to start?”

“How about, how did you sleep last night?” Malfoy bites the inside of cheek, doing his best to sound casual as he keeps his eyes forward.

They make their way down the street, dipping in and out of stores with minimal difficulty, somehow contending with both the crowd and the attention Potter garners as word spreads that he’s out shopping. Draco tries not to think on the unspoken footnote that everyone must be adding on: Out shopping -  _ with Draco Malfoy _ .

“So, err, have you asked for anything special this year?” Potter pauses near the entrance to Honeydukes as they pass, and they both take a moment to breath in the warm vanilla scent of sweets and toffee as it wafts towards them.

“Hmm, not really. Mother usually has a preternatural way of knowing exactly what I want before I think of it myself but I--” Draco stops himself. He doesn’t want to let Potter know that he hasn’t heard from his Mother in weeks. That he still doesn’t know if he’s doomed to spend his Christmas hols in the gloom of The Manor or the lonely halls of an empty Hogwarts. “--I haven’t managed to make a list yet. You?”

Potter shrugs. The moment brings attention to his coat, which is frayed a bit at the seams on his shoulder. Draco unholsters his wand and taps it to the threads so that they neatly stitch themselves together. “I’m happy with anything, really. Lately I’ve been thinking it might be nice to go away somewhere.”

“Go away?” Draco tilts his head with interest. “I never figured you for the jetsetter type, Potter.”

“I’ve never really had time to consider it before. I think it started around The Cup.” He doesn’t need to elaborate any more than that. They both know which event he’s speaking of. “It was the first time I really realized there’s magic all over the world, not just Britain. It makes me curious.”

“Now  _ that _ is more like you. You’re a right nosy git when you get an idea in your head.”

“Luna did say I’d have made a good Ravenclaw,” Potter muses, as they pass the runaway crup once again, tearing the opposite way up the road. “But she also regularly reports that my Aura would benefit from a good bowl of boiled gillyweed and cabbage for regularity.”

“Wise, that Lovegood.” Draco makes a mental note to check on her when the next time he has a chance. He’s already bought her present, but had thought to send it anonymously, lest she get the impression that he cares about her.

They pass  _ Broom Repair _ and Draco signals that he wants to stop inside. He still needs to find the kit for the rest of Ernie’s present. Sharing the information with Potter is a necessary evil -- the search goes faster when they’re able to split up to find it, even if the expression Potter wears is as if Draco’s trod on the tail of his favorite Kneazle.

It’s not until they’ve emerged from  _ Killian’s Toy Shoppe _ in search of a present for a teething Teddy Lupin, who seems to making short work of his Aunt Andromeda’s furniture, that a flashbulb goes off in Draco’s face. It temporarily blinds him and he stumbles back, eyes watering. Blinking rapidly, when Draco can focus, a small crowd has gathered. A reporter who from  _ The Prophet _ crowds Potter, another blocking Draco’s path menacingly when he tries to get move towards him.

“Oi, Death Eater, scum! Should have gone to Azkaban, like your father!” The man’s face is blotchy with angry, purple robes swamping his thin frame. “Potter’s been through enough without having to put up with the likes of you!”

“And what about me? I have to put up with Potter,” Draco tries to joke, but it doesn’t work for either of them. He can feel Potter’s anger, made worse by the fear that roils in Draco’s stomach as he feels the eyes of the crowd upon him. “If you have a problem sir, I suggest you take it up with the Ministry. They’re the ones who made the final decision.”

“Corrupt, the whole lot of ‘em!” Another person shouts, and a noise of agreement goes around the crowd, drowning out the few good samaritans who try to drag their loved ones away, reminding them that it’s Christmas.

“I’ll decide who and I do, and do not, consort with for myself, thanks!” Potter’s furious voice rises above the din. Draco shakes off the ugly thin man and approaches Potter. He sneers at the reporter, contempt written all over his face. “And I’ll ask you to stay out of my business, as it’s the holidays and I just want to get a bit of shopping done! Excuse me!” 

Parting the crowd, Potter grabs Draco’s arm, half walking, half dragging them towards  _ The Three Broomsticks _ to gather himself before apparating them back outside the castle gates. “Potter, stop! For Merlin’s sake, this is cashmere, you’ll stretch it!” Draco wrenches his arm out of Potter’s grasp, brushing the fabric of his coat. What the fucks your problem?”

“What’s my problem,” Potter repeats incredulous. “Did you miss the last twenty minutes or did you just block the whole thing out? You’re good at Occlumency, I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“It’s some arsehole spouting off. Sorry to say, but it’s bound to happen if you’re out with me. I should have warned you.” Draco runs a hand over his face, through his windswept hair. “Honestly, they’re bottom feeders with nothing better to do. It probably won’t even make the back page.”


	16. / better watch out: redux /

**The Chosen One's Chosen Scum!?**

On Sunday Morning in the Village of Hogsmeade, witnesses report that young hero and defeater of Voldemort, Harry James Potter, was seen Christmas shopping with none other than son of convicted Death Eater and heir to the Malfoy fortune, Draco Malfoy. According to witnesses, the two appeared to be very close, canoodling shamelessly and engaging in all sorts of public displays that are too graphic in nature to be reported at this time.

Potter and Malfoy were said to have entered several stores, including Honeydukes (as it is wildly know that Potter has a rather large sweet tooth), The Alchemist’s Secret Wares, and Creature Comforts to name a few. When asked to comment, Potter reportedly shouted obscenities at the crowd, telling them several times that while not in his right mind, he believed himself capable of making his own decisions.

Witnesses agree that Malfoy’s influence was more than evident in the proceedings, as Potter did not deign to help a poor crying girl catch her lost crup, nor pose for photographs. However, candid shots reveal that the Death Eater’s thrall is strong, as evidenced by Potter’s glassy-eyed appearance and flushed skin. It is suspected that illegal potion use is at play. Connections have been made to the Malfoys and illegal potions rings in the past.

Both young men are currently attending their final year at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, and it’s been rumored that both Potter and Malfoy have been spending more time together than some would bid proper. School staff has declined to comment, but we at the Daily Prophet will continue to keep you, the reader, informed as more develops. 


	17. / better not pout /

Prompt: 

“The front page, lads.” Hagrid sounds gruff as he folds the newspaper. In his meaty hands it’s about the size of a tissue, and Draco half expects him to put it to his nose. Instead, Hagrid shakes his head as he passes the article to Potter for him to read. “ ‘Magine it won’t do either of you much good to deny it now.”

Potter throws it down in disgust. “There’s nothing to deny! We’re classmates trying to move past the war. What business is it of theirs whether we spend time together or not?!” He tucks his chin into his scarf, swirling the tea in his mug with more force than strictly necessary. Potter is oddly magnificent when he broods. His strong jaw and dark features were made for it, like a modern day Heathcliff waiting for his moment.

Except the world loves Potter. And while his temper boils hot, Draco knows he’s incapable of holding a grudge for longer than it takes for Potter to burn himself out. It’ll be an annoyance at best, forgiven but not forgotten until  _ The Prophet _ ’s next misstep because of who he is and what he represents.

Unfortunately, Draco can’t say the same for himself.

Carefully, Draco pushes his rock cake around on his plate. Lifts it, then puts it down again in the hopes that Hagrid thinks he’s actually eating it. This is only the second time Draco’s been inside the Gamekeeper’s hut and he’s already learned the hard way that a deft hand in the kitchen, Hagrid _does_ _not_ have.

He’d returned from his trip sometime in the middle of the night, with a well-behaved Grawp in tow, in hopes that visiting the Giant tribe to the north would cure Grawp’s most recent bout of homesickness. Apparently, it had been very successful, if a bit short, and the two brothers returned home in good spirits. Not a moment too soon, given Potter’s response to the other arrival of the morning. Draco hadn’t even left his dorm before Potter’s Patronus arrived to tell him he should skip breakfast and meet Potter on the edge of the grounds.

Patronuses weren’t used lightly -- most people preferred to send owls and notes to relay messages within the castle when necessary -- so waking up to the spectral form of Potter’s stag was nothing short of ominous.

Fang props his head on the knee of Draco’s trousers, soaking them with an alarming amount of drool. When Draco tries to nudge his away, Fang growls, the thrum low in his throat.

“C’mere Fang, you mangy scamp. Let ‘im eat in peace.” Hagrid pats the dog’s head as he bounds noisily to his side of the table, before passing Draco a dingy handkerchief with a grimace. “Sorry Malfoy. Still getting used to you, I suppose.”

Draco nods, and does his best to dab at his leg. This pair is as good as vanished the moment he’s alone. “That makes two of us.” Giving up, he drags the newspaper close and skims the article again, picking out keywords such as  _ canoodling _ ,  _ graphic _ , and  _ illegal _ . He sighs. “There’s going to be owls.”

“And howlers, I suspect,” scowls Potter. His voice softens as he turns to Draco. “I’ll talk to McGonagall. See if she can have them turned back or re-routed. You should probably contact your Mother and.. warn her, I guess?” 

“When we get back.” Draco tells himself he needs time to collect himself, but he’s pretty sure he’s procrastinating. “Since when do you take Narcissa Malfoy’s best interests into consideration?”

Potter shifts awkwardly. He makes a Herculean attempt at his rock cake, but thinks better of it when the bit he manages to gnaw off, crackles like glass between his teeth. “She saved my life. Seems like the right thing to do.”

“I suppose the right thing doesn’t come naturally to me.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Oh, not at all,” says Draco, crossing his arms. “I’m reading between the lines. Same as this hack at  _ The Prophet _ that calls himself a reporter. Don’t you want to ask me about the  _ connections made to the Malfoys and illegal potions rings in the past _ ?” he reads, sarcastically. “Or are you still under the effects of whatever potion I’ve managed to slip you?”

“Are you sure I didn’t write the story?” Potter glares back at him. “Because you’re certainly treating things that way.”

“On the contrary, it would explain all the grammar mistakes.”

“Who’s for more tea?” shouts Hagrid with forced cheer. He doesn’t wait for either of them to answer as he tops off their mugs and piles more cakes onto their plates. “I’m startin’ to understand what Hermione was on about. The two of ye’ bicker like ye’ been together for years.”

“Granger?” Draco asks at the same moment Potter chokes, “Together?”

Hagrid tactfully chooses to address Draco. “Yeah. Wrote to us a few times to see how Grawp and me were makin’ out. Mentioned a few things.” He takes a swig of his tea as Draco waits impatiently. “Always suspected there mighta been something more under the surface.”

“You didn’t,” Potter says with obvious shock. Spots of color appear high in his cheeks, practically giving him away. “You might have said something to me!”

“Or me,” Draco adds with a sniff. “Potter’s the sort to come with a warning on a good day. Adding a crisis of sexuality to it certainly doesn’t help matters.”

“Crisis?” Potter reels back. “I’d thank you not to assume things just because Gin and I have broken up and you and I have been-- been getting along.” His eyes move uncertainly to Hagrid who doesn’t seem to pick up on what Potter’s not saying, the way Draco does.

“All I can do is  _ assume things _ , since you have yet to say much of  _ anything _ ,” Draco returns hotly. “I’m not sure you’ve noticed, but you and I are still dancing around the idea that you don’t seem to find being romantically linked with a  _ male _ all that peculiar.”

“Why should I? Why should anyone?” Potter sets his jaw in a stubborn line that resembles more of a pout. Draco shakes his head in bewilderment. He’s not asking Potter to tell the world if he’s not ready: it’s his business and he, more than anyone, has earned the right to his privacy. But telling the one person not in a position to judge him might be a good start. Especially considering he’s the one person, Draco hopes, that knows what Potter looks like when he comes.

And that’s the real problem, isn’t it. Somewhere deep down, Draco wants that to be true. He’s starting to feel possessive of Potter. To enter that dangerous zone where the time they spend together isn’t just fun and games, or for the sake of moderating their magic and keeping each other in balance -- he wants Harry Potter of his own volition. And as impossible as he knows it to be, he wants Harry Potter to want him back.

“Oi, you two. It’s no use turnin’ on each other.” Hagrid rubs the scruff of Fang’s neck and the great dog happily licks at his hand. “Suspect that’s what plenty o’ people will want, and you’ve got plenty who’ll be glad for it.” His face wears an unusually serious expression, but his scraggly beard does nothing to disguise the kindness of his eyes. It reminds Draco of Dumbledore, the way he’d watched him that horrible night, when he’d spoke of second chances and souls that were still worth saving.

“You’re still young, but you’ll never hafta stop makin’ grown up decisions. What’s right and wrong fer you. An’ I know you’re trying, Malfoy. Harry’s a good judge of character.” He smiles fondly at Potter and there’s so much love in his eyes, Draco feels like he hasn’t earned the right to see it.

“You can trust that,” Hagrid finishes, his voice gruff. “If nothin’ else.”

Draco swallows hard. “I know.”

In an unusual show of tact, Potter doesn’t say anything, but claps a firm hand on Draco’s shoulder and squeezes. Draco meets his eyes and they nod in unspoken acknowledgement, understanding passing between them. Every day it feels more natural, the message loud and clear: they’re in this together.

“Good. Then finish up, and we’ll take Fang out to stretch ‘is legs. Grawp’ll be happy to see ‘ye too. We’ll introduce ‘im to Malfoy.”

“Oh, ah..” He turns wide eyes to Potter, and Potter, the great tosser, only manages to shrug back. Clearly he’s used to Hagrid’s aggressive friendliness and doesn’t think that this particular proposal is a hill worth dying on.

Draco looks down at his plate. He supposes it Gwarp or the rock cakes. This is what he gets for surrounding himself with more and more people with a low threshold for danger.

“Sure, Hagrid. Why not.”


	18. / mail it right away /

Prompt: 

High in the sky and directly over their heads, the sun hangs like the sword of Damocles as Draco begins the walk back to the castle, and what awaits them, with Potter at his side. It’d taken a few hours for Potter to beg off, making excuses of classwork and revision. Draco supposed it was also nerves, but as Potter was the hero, he supposed he’d have to shoulder the dread for both of them. 

Potter stomps through the grass and snow, sparse as it is now that it hasn’t fallen in a few days and the good weather has been doing its best to keep it at bay. There’s a part of Draco that hopes it’ll snow again soon, fond as he is of the usual Christmas traditions and the picturesque way the large trees and sweeping hills frame the castle grounds, everything covered in white like a postcard.

The truth of the matter is that Draco’s probably make a big deal out of nothing. He’s been through much worse. Had much worse said about him than idle gossip. And he’s about to say as much, when something catches his attention out of the corner of his eye. Up ahead, Potter stops and looks up.

“Are those--?”

Draco raises his hand to shield his eyes. “Yes.”

Owls, maybe a hundred are more, perch on the roof of the Owlery, some circling the sky just overhead. They look like a swarm of bees or wasps, the way they seem to converge in one place, their eyes looking about as they maintain the contents of their beaks.

Because of course they have letters. There’s an overwhelming amount of red, and Draco thinks he can see smoke wafting up from some of them if he looks closely. But there are plain envelopes too, as well as some with larger packages: boxes, bags, odd objects wrapped in plain brown paper. Draco can only imagine what  _ hasn’t _ made it onto the grounds yet, and suddenly the need to contact his mother and, perhaps he thinks with trepidation, his father, has left the field of polite and entered necessary.

“What am I going to tell my parents?” Draco groans. He doesn’t know why he says the words out loud. He doesn’t even know how much he wants to tell them. He knows they’ve had their suspicions, but confirming as much is a different story altogether.

Potter spins to face him. “The truth?” 

“Shall I start with the Sorting Hat and work my way up to how lumpy your mattress is?”

“I told you so,” Potter smirks, obviously in favor of lightening the mood. “I’m starting to rethink the idea of beds altogether. We ought to sleep standing up. Take a note from the vampires and get ourselves some coffins.”

“I am rather fond of blood pops.”

“Perhaps it’s why you’re so fair. Hermione suspected there might be Veelas in your family, but I didn’t think there were any--” Potter stops short as a stately looking Eagle owl soars towards them, its wings extended as it enters a smooth glide. Even after so long, Draco recognizes his mother’s owl Bellero instantly and while his stomach swoops at the thought of what could possibly be in the envelope she clutches, he’s more relieved to know his mother has finally broken their silent standoff.

Bellero lands on his shoulder, her claws digging into the fabric of his coat. Draco strokes her black and gray feathers with the back of his fingers -- she’s as beautiful and impressive as ever, and knows it. She leans forward as he takes the envelope from her mouth. “Go on, Belle. If the Owlery’s too crowded, head for Gryffindor Tower and Potter will give you some treats when he gets up there.”

The assessing look Bellero gives Potter says she greatly doubts this, but she goes obediently, Draco wincing as her talons dig once again into his shoulder as she takes off.

“Something tells me that owl won’t go for the usual stuff.”

“She’ll be fine if you can manage some meaty bits from the kitchens,” Draco says absently, turning the letter over in his fingers. It feels a bulky, and when he breaks the wax seal on the back, something small and shiny falls out into his palm.

“What’s that?”

Draco holds it up to the light, the sun hitting the platinum sharp and bright. The engraved M curves at the ends, ornate and grand. “My father’s signet ring.”

Potter blinks, both eyebrows raised. “That’s. Different.”

Slipping it into his pocket, Draco doesn’t bother to answer, tearing into the envelope to remove the slip of parchment folded neatly in two. His eyes race over the page, his mother’s handwriting feminine and precise as she expresses her surprise at the contents of the morning’s paper, as well as Draco’s failure to bring any of it to her attention. He exhales through his nose, draws another shaky breath. He’d expected as much.

What Draco doesn’t expect, entirely too conscious of Potter standing at his side. is the next paragraph. The one not only encouraging his newfound relationship with Potter, but instructing him to take advantage of the situation. What an advantageous union their friendship could be for the Malfoy name, and the use it could be to them were it to develop naturally into something more.

The tips of Draco’s ears are aflame. His father’s signet ring -- one of the most significant pieces of jewelry to pass through the Malfoy line, handed down from generation to generation -- is a  _ virility _ ring. His mother has sent him a glorified sexual talisman in hopes that he’ll bugger The Chosen One.

For fuck’s sake.

The saddest part of all is that Draco can’t say the idea hasn’t crossed his mind. On numerous occasions as of late.

Draco hurriedly stuffs the letter into his coat pocket with the ring, lengthening his strides as he heads back towards the castle.

“Hey, wait!” Potter dashes after him, his face writ with concern. “What did she say?”

“Nothing to worry your head about, Potter. Let’s just say she has a few thoughts on the matter.”

“And the ring?”

A reward? A threat? Draco’s not sure what to make of it. If his mother’s sent it to him, surely his father would know, and if his father’s heard what’s going on despite an entire ocean situated between them, Draco has a lot more to process than whether or not he plans to have the loss of his virginity forced upon him by his parents of all people. “Just something she thinks will be helpful.”

Potter doesn’t look like he believes it and really he ought not to, but it still makes Draco bristle knowing Potter can constantly see through him.

“I’m not going to poison you, if that’s what you’re afraid of. Don’t tempt me.”

“I wouldn’t worry. You’ve already proven you’re not great at it.” 

Draco stops. They’re right outside the large entrance doors but he doesn’t move to grasp them just yet. “You’re more of a freak than I realized, Potter. I’ve said a lot of cruel things to you over the years. True things, but cruel things. Now you say them back and it feels right.” Draco smiles ruefully. “You and I have always been truthful with each other. Our contempt, our anger... You remember every single thing I did and you’re still standing right here.”

Potter nods. “You were an asshole, Malfoy. You were a coward, a bigot, and a bully, who made a lot of bad decisions that you weren’t forced into and you realize it until you were in too deep to get out.” Draco watches Potter’s eyes, green as glass, as he searches Draco’s face. “But you’ve made a lot of decisions I never expected either. Ones that cost you something. Ones you still don’t think anyone notices.”

“I’m still doing things for people to notice!” Draco insists, frowning. “Just not  _ those _ kinds of things.” He doesn’t know if he’s making sense. He’s going to have to hope Potter understands what he’s trying to say.

“I said I know,” Potter laughs, the berk. “I really don’t mind if you think I’m a freak Draco. You’re one too. I’m starting to like it.”

“Excuse m--” Potter’s lips are soft and warm when they brush against Draco’s. They’re standing an awkward angle, connected no where but their lips, and yet Draco’s brain short-circuits, caught in a full body shiver that spreads from that single point of contact, out to every part of his body. Potter tilts his head just so, applying just the right amount of pressure and Draco feels his breath hitch. He’s entirely too aware of his need, his desperation, as he moves his mouth in tandem with Potter, until they’re kissing so hard it’s almost bruising.

When Draco pulls away, he’s dizzy. He has the absurd thought that he must be floating. Blinks heavily as another thought comes to him.

“That’s the second time you’ve called me Draco.”

Potter nods, not at all surprised to be caught out. In fact he seems proud, and a little smug. It makes Draco want to smile back, even as he tries to bite his lip in an attempt to fight it. Warm lips brush the corner of his mouth, playfully.

“Then I guess you’d better start calling me Harry.”


	19. / have a jubilee /

Prompt: 

Headmistress McGonagall wastes no time calling Draco and Harry into her office as soon as they set foot back into the castle. She’s made efforts to get rid of the owls, as well as the howlers and fan mail that regularly comes for Potter, even before the revelation that he’s been spending time with Draco Malfoy. Unfortunately, some still managed to slip through and she warns them that they should prepare themselves both physically and mentally for what’s to follow. She’s very vague about the revelation and her thoughts on it herself, which Draco is grateful for. She does warn them that they should limit their fraternization within the castle walls, but she also understands that they’re healthy, young, men who have urges (which makes Draco want to melt into the floor), and that they whatever they do they should be safe.

Despite her understanding and her warnings, there’s nothing that really prepares them for the reaction of their friends.

Harry and Draco walk back to one of their common rooms

The walk back to to the dungeons is a strange one. Despite being chewed out by McGonagall for minutes that felt like hours, Draco feels giddy. Like he could he could skip through the castle halls. Of course, doing that would be giving Harry the satisfaction of knowing that these feelings are all about him, so Draco holds himself back. He suspects Potter knows anyway - still connected, the dopey smile on Harry’s face gives him away just as much as if he were leeching the feeling from the very core of Draco’s being.

They don’t hold hands or anything so obvious, but heads swivel in their direction anyway as they walk through the halls. Harry brushes the back of hand against Draco’s as they walk, bumping shoulders,

and the reminder of Potter’s presence is reassuring. Honestly Draco thinks he should be used to the stares by now. He certainly would have eaten up this kind attention a few years ago when he’d been so desperate for it.

As they descend the curved staircase, Draco clears his throat. “Shouldn’t you go clear things up with your friends? Let them know you’re alright?”

Harry starts with a suddenness that suggests his mind was very far away. “No, that’s okay. I think they suspected something was up anyway.”

“Oh.” Draco’s not quite sure what to make of that. The idea that Harry might have been talking to them about anything concerning Draco makes him nervous. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Yeah.” Harry tilts his head, thoughtfully. There are smudges on the lens of his glasses. “Besides, something tells me it’ll be much more entertaining if I stay here. I’m sure Parkinson has read the article by now.”

Draco shakes his head. “You’re a sadist. Pansy’s much more a Witch Weekly person.” She’s also a terrible gossip. There’s no way she hasn’t not only read the article, but geminio’d several copies for the rest of their housemates to peruse.

Touching his wand to the stone wall, the craggy rocks slides back to reveal the entrance to the common room. They aren’t even through the hole before a loud BANG! Causes Draco to stumble back into Harry as silver and green confetti rains down on them. Draco looks around in utter confusion.

“It’s the man of the hour!” Blaise’s booming voice seems to fill the room. He vaults over one of the small end tables to stand in front of Draco, his arms spread. There’s confetti caught in his long beard.

“We were wondering if we’d have to go looking for you,” Theo calls from his seat in front of the fire. “Pansy put ten galleons on you sulking in that alcove you like so much.”

“It was that or hiding out in Gryffindor Tower with Potter.” Pansy stands to her feet, throwing her bushy beard over her shoulder to keep it out of her drink. “I was _half_ right.”

“Half right doesn’t earn you a knut. It has to be exact to count.”

Draco’s still trying to piece together what’s going on as Blaise leads him with Potter in tow over to the corner they’ve commandeered as their own. Potter’s looks around with interest.

“I like your --” he motions to Theo’s pencil thin moustache and beard combo.

“Cheers. I always said Potter was a man of taste,” Theo tells the room at large, only looking up a moment from the game of Exploding Snap he’s playing with Daphne Greengrass. “Just because Father Christmas has a beard the size of Greenland doesn’t mean the rest of us have to.”

Draco’s eyes widen. “Was that today?? I completely forgot!” The Beard Party is an annual Slytherin tradition, a modified holiday classic, as no Slytherin would be caught dead in anything so horrid as an ugly Christmas jumper. Draco’s preferred style of facial hair is particularly distinguished, if he says so himself.

“Distracted, were you?” Blaise asks, smugly. Don’t worry, we thought as much. Would you like the third degree now or now? Believe me, it’s much better to get it over with while we’re tipsy enough not to remember anything endearing you might say. Drink, Potter?”

“Please,” he answers. Draco feels he should probably warn him that Slytherins prefer their drinks strong and occasionally laced with Veritaserum. On the other hand, it’s Harry _my-life-has-been-one-lucky-break-after-the-other_ Potter. He’ll be fine.

Probably.

Blaise passes them two steaming mugs of cider spiked with a bottle of Blishen's that Theo managed to sneak in, while someone turns on the wireless and the latest release from The Weird Sisters’ Yule album begins to play. Draco lowers himself onto the empty hard-backed sofa, and Harry puts on no airs about settling in right next to him.

“Mmm,” Pansy hums over the rim of her drink, her eyes twinkling. “So this is what all that bickering has been about, eh?”

“It certainly explains why Malfoy’s head turns every time a bloke with dark hair enters the room.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco snaps, feeling his face heat. Beside him, Potter leans forward.

“I’d like to hear more about these blokes, if you don’t mind.”

“They’re all better looking than you,” Draco says quickly. “I obviously settled.”

“So what are you guys calling this?” Blaise gestures between them. “Are we ‘ _very good friends_ ’ or are we officially ‘ _shagging each other silly_?’ Others have been asking you see, and I’d like to have an official statement prepared.” Blaise continues to give them his most charming smile, but Draco can hear the seriousness that underlies his words.

He bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t want to answer with Potter next to him in case he’s overstepping his boundaries. Maybe he thinks it’s one think when Harry thinks its something else, and to find that out while receiving the third degree from his friends an idea that Draco finds beyond mortifying.

“We’re seeing where it goes, while not seeing anyone else,” Harry answers smoothly. “I’m not a fan of labels. And really, it’s no one else's business but Draco and I. If anyone's asking," he adds, with finality.

Draco swallows hard. He wasn't sure what he expected, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't feel pleasantly surprised. Draco doesn't even mind that Harry's speaking for both of them, because it's a perfect reflection of his own feelings. He probably couldn't speak now anyway, with how his heart is racing. When Harry subtly rests his hand on Draco's thigh, Draco realizes that Harry must be feeling just as amazed as Draco by his own daring.

“Fair enough,” Blaise says with a shrug. Pansy looks like she has more to add to that but Blaise stops her with a subtle shake of the head. She frowns but seemingly drops the subject. Instead she turns to Harry, a mischievous smile curving her lips.

“So tell me, Potter,” Pansy points her wand at his face. “Have you ever considered what you’d look like with a face full of fur? I've always imagined you as the Dumbledore type, myself.”


	20. / write your letter /

Prompt: 

The following day, Draco’s head is still fuzzy from the knowledge of Harry Potter looks like with a full, neatly trimmed, beard. It’s something Draco’s never considered before -- he’d considered himself the type to be attracted to the clean-shaven look -- but now that he’s actually seen it on Harry, he likes the idea very,  _ very  _ much. There’s something about Harry’s scruff that only serves to emphasize his confidence; the way he doesn’t let anyone’s disapproval change the things he likes about himself.

After a healthy bribe, Pansy managed to sneak a few photos of Potter ‘ _for posterity_ ,’ but they would take a few days to develop, which was fine. Draco certainly didn’t need a photo to remember how the Harry’s rough whiskers had felt against his skin when they’d kissed goodnight at the bottom of the dungeon stairs. And Draco had recalled them again, with great accuracy, later that night, when he’d brought himself off to the thought of that same stubble burn marking the inside of his thighs.

Thoughts of Harry are still on his mind when he enters the Muggle Studies classroom and Professor Hangingbone stands at the front of the room, behind her desk. She looks worse for wear, as if the time off has had an ill effect on her spirits: her hair is lank, her eyes dull. Draco thinks she looks thinner than the last time he’d seen her, the day of the brawl. It feels like months ago, though Draco knows logically it’s only been a week or two.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Hangingbone greets him with a frown. It’s like she doesn’t even have the energy to disguise her displeasure, and Draco’s unsure if the source stems from his sudden appearance in her classroom or her having to be there herself.

“Professor Hangingbone.” He notices a postcard on her desk, an image of London Bridge covered in snow, the tower clock looming in the background. He supposes that's where she must have spent her time away, but given that he's not sure, Draco decides to play it safe. Keep things vague. “Welcome back.” 

Hangingbone doesn’t nod so much as twitch in response. Draco takes that as his cue, and hurries as fast as a dignified walk will allow, to the open seat next to Harry.

“Hey.” He gives Draco a distractingly handsome smile but Draco can hardly appreciate it. Harry narrows his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Hangingbone’s back,” Draco glances back towards the front of the room. He’s alarmed to find she’s staring straight at him. She looks away and he looks back at Harry, whose eyes furrow even more. “You caught that, right? Something’s off. I don’t like it.”

“Yeah..” Harry makes a show of sorting his textbook and parchment. He lowers his voice so that only Draco can here. “She might still be cross about the hat.”

“She’d be holding a grudge! That was ages ago!”

“Well whatever the case," Harry says, "we'd rather be on her good side. We still need to talk to her about the curse and she won’t stop looking at you.”

Draco gave him a sharp look. “And what, I'm supposed to offer some formal apology? She sent us _both_ to the hospital wing. She has her damn tree.” He juts his chin towards the Christmas tree standing tall and proud in the corner, and doesn’t mention that they hadn’t been able to participate in the tree’s preparation due to the Blaise incident.

Harry seems to be thinking along the same lines, as he gives Draco a flat look, rolling his eyes when Draco mirrors the look back at him. “You’re a Slytherin. You know greasing the wheels won’t hurt.”

Reaching for his quill, Draco ignores Harry in favor of dipping it into his inkpot. He’s using a deep green today, and even in his head, he’s finds it saccharine to think that the color matches Harry’s eyes. When the quill has enough ink, Draco touches it to a scrap of parchment. He glances at Harry out of the corner of his eye. “Are you sure you shouldn’t have been in Slytherin? You’ve taken to us well enough.”

“Funny you should say that.” Draco waits for Harry to elaborate but he doesn’t, just turns back to the front as Hangingbone begins the day’s lesson. Draco sighs and starts on his apology letter. There’s only a few more days before hols. If he and Harry going to get the situation sorted before then, it seems like the most practical place to start.


	21. / workshop /

Prompt: 

Draco crosses out another line, his quill digging into the parchment. At least it wasn’t running away with his hand anymore. Having Harry by his side meant Draco’s magic felt balanced more often than not. Unfortunately it did not to help him when it came to drafting a letter to his mother.

 _I appreciate the gesture_ , was vanished and followed by, _I_ know _it’s a token of father’s esteem but_ , which bled into _we’re nowhere near that stage in our relationship_. Draco made a face. The last one might be a lie. He and Potter had been exercising a lot of free will and had few lines left to cross excluding penetration. But that felt like too huge a step to take lightly. Despite being a Slytherin, Draco still had areas in which he felt quite traditional. He wasn’t holding out for Potter’s hand in marriage, but, well. Something more permanent would be nice..

“I promise I’m not reading over your shoulder, but you’ve more lines crossed out than dashes. What’s left might constitute one _whole_ sentence.” Ernie flashes a joking smile from beneath his knit hat. “You don’t have to send it today.”

“I should,” Draco grumbles, crushing the paper. He pitches it into the wastebasket next to their bench. “Everyone leaves tomorrow and I still haven’t thought of a way of going back to the Manor.”

“You could come to mine.”

Draco blinks. The suddenness of the invitation takes him by surprise. “I— Cheers, McMillan, but I couldn’t impose. I don’t think your family is as forgiving and I wouldn’t want to risk it, considering.” He gestures vaguely between them, grateful when Ernie interprets what he’s said with an understanding nod.

“Then spend the hols with Harry. He has a place to himself, doesn’t he?” Ernie bites at a hangnail on his pinky as Draco makes a face. “I don’t mean for _that_. But he’s your boyfriend, isn’t he? He’d be hard pressed to say no.”

“He’s made plans with the Weasleys. And he’s not my boyfriend.”

Ernie raises an eyebrow. “Could have fooled me.” He looks around the courtyard in a way that Draco _knows_ means he’s gearing up to say something. “Look, you know how I feel about it. Harry’s a good guy, but he’s always flying by the seat of his pants about something or other.” Ernie shrugs. “I just don’t want you to be one of those things.”

“I’m being careful,” Draco frowns.

“No you’re not. You’ve been trying to restore your reputation, and people are going to take your feelings for Harry and assume it’s a stunt to make yourself look better. All the mess they’ve said about potions and love spells? And what happens when he decides to break it off?”

“IfI were to decide anything, it wouldn’t concern you, Ern.”

Draco and Ernie both start. The movement startles a squirrel on the trunk of the tree nearest them. Harry’s behind their bench, hands in the pocket of his robes. Saying he looks displeased would be an understatement.

“Let me guess: you’re looking out for Draco’s best interests?”

“Something like that,” Ernie returns, grimly. He looks to Draco again. Stands. “Just think about what I’ve said, alright? Happy Christmas, Draco. Harry.”

They watch as Ernie walks back into the castle, Harry coming around the side of the bench. It’s apparent he doesn’t plan to take a seat. Draco’s eyes harden.“I’m allowed to have other people who care about me.”

Harry snorts. “He’s _very_ caring. A Hufflepuff to the core. Why not take him up on the invitation?” Draco can tell by the way the fabric pulls that Harry’s making a fists inside his pockets. “After all, I’m not your boyfriend.”

“No, you’re not,” Draco answers coldly, rising from his seat.“And you’re not usually this dramatic either.”

“How could I be, when you launch into enough histrionics for the both of us?”

“Mr. Malfoy.” Another voice drags Draco from his thoughts once again. It’s not exactly a trend he’s keen to continue; not now when he wants to throttle Potter’s throat. Draco rounds on the figure than stops.“Professor!”

A thick, woolen scarf wrapped around her neck, Professor Hangingbone nods curtly. “I received your note. I’d like a moment alone, if I may.”

“Of course.” Draco gathers his things, ignoring the way Potter tries to catch his eye. It’s not until he tries to fall into step behind them that not Draco, but Hangingbone takes it upon herself to dismiss him. “I’d really like to speak to Malfoy privately, Mr. Potter. You should finish your packing. Have your trucks ready for the train.”

“If you’re sure..” It’s directed towards Draco, who firms his mouth into a hard line. He’s not a child. And he’s certainly not going to give Harry the satisfaction of making the scene expected of him. Instead, Draco raises his chin and displays the full brunt of his poshest accent.

“Enjoy your holiday, Potter.”


	22. / telling you why /

Prompt: 

Turning on his feet, Draco’s smart shoes click clack the pavement as he follows Hangingbone off the courtyard and through a side entrance, back into the castle. Consumed by thoughts of Potter and his stubborn temper, it’s not until they pass both the door to Hangingbone’s classroom with the emblem of a holiday pudding, and her office on the first floor, that Draco notices she’s leading him across the empty foyer to take the staircase that leads down to the harbor, and not the dungeons.

“Professor?” Draco wrinkles his nose. He’s maybe been down here twice since first year, as there’s not much purpose for visiting. Every September, first years are brought across the water, led by Hagrid’s on the small fleet of boats. It’s more for first impression than anything else — the rest of the year the boats bob sadly in the water, warded off from students and unused, unless Filch or one of the Professors needs to sort out the creatures within the lake. It’s cool and dark down there, the moldy wet smell of twine and sea water filling Draco’s nostrils.

“I thought it might be better to discuss your situation somewhere others wouldn’t overhear. You’ve been the topic of conversation long enough, wouldn’t you say?”

Draco felt his jaw clench. “Quite.”

“Alright, then.” Professor Hangingbone stops once they reach the end of the dock and clasps her hands together.The light is faint down here, just a few torches set into the walls. Their flames reflect on the dark water and cast strange shadows across her face. Still, Draco can see that’s she’s still drawn and pale compared to how healthy she’d looked earlier in the term, so enthused about her lessons and Christmas traditions.

“You’ve had some questions about my Sorting Hat, as well you should,” Hangingbone says. “It’s quite the magical object. A hat that doesn’t judge character based on thoughts, but on emotions. And why shouldn’t it? Emotions are much more genuine.” 

“They’re much more temperamental.” The words are out before Draco can catch them. “That is to say,” he clears his throat, “That we can at least control our thoughts. Emotions just overtake you sometimes. Feeling angry doesn’t make you an angry person.”

Hangingbone’s eyes are overly bright, as she looks from Draco’s face down into the water. “Do you think so, Mr. Malfoy?” Her voice is low. “I’ve found true nature will always show itself in one way or another.”

Deep in Draco, an alarm goes off. There’s something about the woman in front of him that’s become unsettling, and they’ve left the topic of conversation without even properly broaching it. “You said you read my note, Professor. Potter and I were both affected by that Sorting Hat. It didn’t fall on a decision of _naughty_ or _nice_ for either of us, and our magic and emotions went haywire.”

She jerks her head. “That was the plan.”

The words don’t echo off the cavernous stones, or hang in the air between them. It’s exactly the opposite. They sink like a stone beneath the surface of the water. Like a heavy object dropped unceremoniously at Draco’s feet. “The plan?”

“It was only supposed to be you, Draco.” Hangingbone steps closer, and he takes a step back. “The Sorting Hat reads emotions, but it uses magical energy to do it. Stores it up. That’s why Father Christmas can check his list — he has so much joy and peace stored up, it wouldn’t be a drain to his body.”

Draco shakes his head. He doesn’t know what any of that has to do with him. His face must say as much. Hangingbone continues. “Do you remember what I said that day, Draco? I passed the hat around and I told you all to think of strong, _negative_ emotions. I needed to store them up in the hat, take a little from from anyone who might have even a bit of negative emotions regarding _you_.”

Hangingbone takes another step closer this time and Draco startles to realize he doesn’t have enough room to take anymore back, unless he plans to jump into the water. It’s not a terrible plan; he’s a decent enough swimmer after many summers on the beaches of France. But the water tonight is black and angry. He’s seen enough of their depth from the other side of the dungeon’s thick glass and understands why Potter had to face it to become a Triwizard champion.

_Harry._

“Why Potter, then?” Draco blurts. “If you wanted to target me, drain my magic, make me miserable. Why did it effect him?”

“He touched the hat before you put it on,” Hangingbone snaps, her face twisted in a nasty scowl. “Which wouldn’t have meant anything if you two weren’t already connected. It severed the the load. Made him take on half of it!” Spittle flies from her mouth as she becomes more agitated. “I thought I could reverse it if I made him put it on, but then _you_ touched it! Why did you have to touch it!?”

Draco knows better than to answer. He thinks. He could go for his wand, still holstered on his thigh. But he’s fresh off of parole and the Ministry wouldn’t hesitate to spin the situation to suit their narrative. They’re were already mad enough that unlike his father, Draco escaped Azkaban. Had not only Harry, but Lovegood take the stand at his trial — no, stunning a Hogwarts Professor would not reflect well. He thinks he hears scurrying, but mice are prevalent in this area of the castle, so near to the Owlery, and he puts it out of his mind. He needs to stall for time. “Why me?”

“Why you?!” repeats Hangingbone, shrilly. Her hair seems to fly about her face and she looks deranged. “You knew my sister. You were sat at that table and watched them murder her and you did _nothing_! You might as well have murdered her yourself!!”

The blood seems to drain completely from his body. Draco feels hallow. Has to swallow thickly. “Your. Your sister.. she taught..” _Muggle Studies_.

“Hope Hangingbone.” She points to herself, with a chuckle. “Faith, Hope, and _Charity_. Of course, Faith and Charity didn’t make it through the war. And neither did my husband.” Hangingbone finally draws her wand, as if coming to a decision. “But _you_ did. You and your vile family, scouring this world with your evil, twisted—”

“ _Expelliarmus_!” Harry’s voice rings out loud and clear as Hangingbone’s wand goes flying. She spins, her arm flailing, and Draco barely ducks in time to avoid toppling into the water. Instead he grabs his wand, casting the first defensive spell he can think of that won’t be deemed by an outside party as anything but innocent tailoring gone wrong.

“ _Obstringere_!”

Eyes wide, Harry and Draco watch together as Hangingbone’s robes tighten around her body, ribboning before she keels over in a full body bind. She hits the wood of the dock with a satisfying thud, the scarf muffling her enraged shrieks.

“Draco!” Harry rushes towards him, falling onto his knees. “Are you alright?”

“How’d you know I was down here?” Draco asks, just this once unable to keep the awe he feels around the other out of his voice.

Harry has the nerve to laugh. “How’d I know!? I followed you, you arse.” He indicates the invisibility cloak, lying abandoned behind him back by the stairs. His smile turns cheeky. “That’s kind of _our thing_ , you know.”

“I have never been more grateful to know a freak like you,” Draco says, returning Harry’s smile with a rueful one of his own. “It almost makes me glad sixth year happened. Almost!” He hurries to add when Harry opens his mouth.

He shakes his head. “I just wanted to say, that makes three times I’ve saved your life now.”

Draco bites his lip as he climbs to his feet. Behind him, he can hear Hangingbone continuing to thump and flail as he holds out his hand to help Harry up. “And I just wanted to say,” Draco says, tightening his grip on the warmth of Potter as he levers his weight, “Is I hope you know a good drying charm.”

Laughing, Draco shoves Harry towards the water, and it’s only when he doesn’t let go of Draco’s hand, pulling him over the edge of the dock with him, that Draco truly feels for the first time since Potter approached him that afternoon in the library, that things will be alright.


	23. / spend a holiday /

Prompt: 

“You look like a drowned rat,” Harry said affectionately, bumping Draco’s shoulder as they walked down from the Headmistress’ office.

“And your hair looks like more of a rat’s nest than ever,” Draco snorted. “We must make a pair.”

Hangingbone confessed to everything. They’d sent a Patronus to McGonagall, who in turn met them halfway wrapped in her tartan dressing gown, complete with matching hair bonnet. Together, the three of them levitated the former Muggle Studies professor up to the Headmistress’ office. Aurors were summoned to take their statements and administer veritaserum. Flickwick had also been sent for to corroborate Hangingbone’s story and review the spell work placed on the hat. Once this was done, they were able to lift the curse off of Harry and Draco with next to no damage — at this point, they’d grown so used to balancing each other’s moods that it didn’t feel much different to their usual state.

It had been a very, very long night. They would be leaving for holidays the following morning. With the promise that she would talk to the Ministry on Draco’s behalf, and have supper sent up to them once they were ready for bed, McGonagall finally sent them off, rubbing at her temples.

Draco hadn’t missed the way the Headmistress had looked at them as she mentioned supper, had made the all too right assumption that wherever they went, they would spending the rest of the evening together. Heat rushed to Draco’s ears and spread across his face. It would be naive to think the rumors of his relationship with Potter hadn’t spread to the faculty.

“Do you miss it?” Harry asks. He’s leading them up the staircase that will connects to the fourth floor, where they can take the nearest flight of stairs to the Prefects bathroom.

“The connection?”

“Yeah.”

Draco shakes his head. “I don’t think we need it anymore.” He allows himself to shook Harry a knowing smirk. “You’re so transparent, I can read you like a book.”

“Is that so?” The innocence Harry injects into his voice wouldn’t fool Peeves. “Then you must have an idea of where I’m taking you now.”

“I think that push off the dock exposed some kind of fetish. You’re a kinky sod, Potter.”

In actuality they’re too exhausted to allow for much more than furtive touches and slow, deep kisses up to their necks in the warm, soapy water of the Prefect’s bath. It doesn’t stop Draco from feeling contentment sink into his bones, the solid weight of Harry’s arms around his waist as their lips meet over and over, making Draco feel as light as a feather.

It’s a light supper of tea and toast in the Gryffindor common room, side by side in front of the fire, before Harry takes Draco’s hand and leads him quietly into his dorm. The others are already asleep, their curtains drawn. They crawl into Harry’s bed and slip under the sheets, Harry drawing Draco’s body to before his head has hit the pillow.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to spend hols with me?” Harry says softly into Draco’s ear. His breath puffs sweetly on the shell of Draco’s ear, sends a thrill of pleasure down his spine. “We’d have to spend Christmas Eve at the Burrow, but I don’t anyone will mind if we were to spend Christmas Day at mine.”

Draco can feel the anchor of sleep pulling him down, down. There’s something about a hard won happiness that works as strong as a sleeping draught. Giving in, Draco nods, his eyes closed. Even Christmas Eve with a gaggle of redheads doesn’t seem as daunting. Idly he wonders when Harry’s mattress became so soft. “Yes,” Draco sighs happily and doesn’t even get the _‘I’ll go with you_ ,’ out before he’s fast asleep.

He can write to his mother tomorrow.


	24. / millions of stockings /

Prompt: 

“Harry, oh fuck,” Draco bites back a moan, slowly rolling his hips. He tightens his grip on Harry’s shoulder, one hand splayed over his heart. 

The walls at the Burrow are thin and Draco, through the lustful haze of straddling Harry’s hips, feeling his cock buried hilt deep, wonders if the  _ Muffilato _ s they’ve cast will be enough. The Weasleys are downstairs, most of them asleep except for Ron and Hermione, out in the garden, and Ginny downstairs cuddling with her on-again beau, Dean Thomas, to the surprise of only himself and Potter, who’d been a little too busy the last few weeks, to notice.

Even after bribing Harry to let them arrive late, dinner was as awkward as Draco assumed it would be, and he’d taken the first opportunity to flee upstairs to Ron’s room, where he and Harry were staying the night. Ron had left them to it, with the express plea that any and all  _ activities  _ be kept to Harry’s cot and not Ron’s bed. Draco had to admire what a concession that was; he was sure for Weasley, the knowledge that they were probably going to shag in his bedroom was bad enough.

“That’s it.” Draco rolls his hips again, lifting off slightly to relish the delicious burn. His cock, damp with lube and pre-cum, slides along the clenched ridges of Harry’s stomach. He feels the way Harry’s thighs flex beneath Draco’s own as he brings his hips off the bed, the way Harry huffs, trying not to cry out as Draco takes him deeper. “Split me wide with that prick of yours.”

Harry laughs. Presses his palms flat to Draco’s back and slides them down to grip the flesh of his arse, pulling his cheeks apart as he picks up his pace. Draco’s pajamas are pushed down around his calves, Harry’s down to mid-thigh. His skin is damp and Draco’s hands slips, finding purchase in the sheets as his mouth falls open. “Harry,” It comes out as a strangled warning. Dolt that he is, Potter just laughs again and wraps his fingers around Draco’s prick, gives his a few skillful pulls to match the rhythm of his hips as Draco moans.

“Wanna see you come,” Harry pants, licking his lips. “Want to feel it on my skin.”

“Yeah?” Draco shuts his eyes tight, feels the way the arousal coils low in his belly, tension building as he arches his back before it snaps, carrying him over the edge in an intense wave of pleasure.

Draco falls forward, jerks as Harry removes his fist, so that each pulse is caught, slick and wet, between their stomachs. Biting his bottom lip, Draco curls in hand into Harry’s hair, let’s him fuck up into him, whines when as hot pulses of spunk fill him up.

When they both come down, Draco’s too tired to do a  _ scourgify _ . He reaches down over the side of the bed and grabs the first thing he feels, a thick, maroon monstrosity. He pulls back from Harry just enough to swipe at the cooling spunk on their stomachs.

Harry rises onto his elbow, cringing. “Draco.” 

“Hmm?”

“I think that’s Ron’s..”

Draco glances down, unfurling the jumper to reveal the giant R knit on the front. The tail of the ‘R’ look especially sticky, smeared white. He shrugs. “It looks better now, to be honest.”

To his credit, Harry looks like he tried very hard not to snort before he fails. He pulls Draco back down. “We’ll leave for Andromeda’s early. I’m sure your Mother’s looking forward to seeing you.”

Draco grimaces into Harry’s chest. “Your pillow talk needs work.” Even so, his heart pounds just a little faster. If he’d told himself two months ago that he’d be spending the Holidays not only with his mother, but in the hungry embrace of Harry Potter, he’d had checked himself into the Janus Thickey ward.

He has to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Harry asks, his voice warm with affection.

“She never found out who’s naughty or nice.”

“Better watch out, then,” Harry says as he guides Draco’s mouth to his own. “I think we’re all of the above.” 


	25. / christmas day /

Prompt: 

ONE YEAR LATER

“Harry?”

Draco emerges from the bedroom to check around the doorway. Peer down the empty hallway. He could have sworn he’d left Harry asleep under the covers.

They’d been up late last night, wrapping the last of their gifts in order to make the rounds this morning: The Burrow. The Manor. Teddy. Hogwarts. But of course, mistletoe had materialized out of nowhere, and they’d gotten distracted. Draco was learning he was particularly randy during the Holidays, looking for any excuse to shed his clothes.

Like now. He descended the stairs, his pants long abandoned on the floor of Harry’s bedroom. He was careful to avoid the trick step that sent one back at the top of the stairs to begin the process once more, light on his feet.

A warm glow spilled from the sitting room out onto the floor, the fairy lights of the tree twinkling merrily in the twilight period just before sunrise. Harry stood, tall and glorious before the tree without a stitch of clothing on.

Draco’s mouth pulls into a smile. He slides a hand onto Harry’s hip, resting his chin in the crook of his shoulder. “I think you forgot something.”

“Oh?” Harry doesn’t start, just melts into him as he relaxes his stance. Draco brings his other hand around, bringing the red hat it’s white trim into Harry’s field of vision.

“Put it on. Let’s see if anything’s changed since last year.”

“Everything’s changed.”

“Not  _ everything _ ,” Draco presses a soft kiss to Harry’s neck. “I’ll still let you watch if you want.”

“That’s pretty generous for a Slytherin.”

“Quite perceptive for a Gryffindor.”

Harry turns so that Draco is in his arms, and Draco takes the opportunity to place the hat atop his messy curls at a jaunty angle. They’ve only been together a year. But what a year it’s been. And while they have yet to take the big leap of moving in together or saying those three words, that Draco feels are always on the tip of his tongue, there’s a solidarity to this -- this  _ thing _ between them -- that says everything they need to, even when the words remain unsaid. Something Draco can sense. Something they just  _ know _ .

“Happy Christmas, Harry,” he says softly, closing the distance between their lips as the fairy lights silhouette them from behind.

“Happy Christmas, Draco.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I did it. Wow. This was an experience. Thank you to everyone who came with me. Thank you for reading, commenting, kudos-ing, or just wishing me good luck in the back of your mind. Thanks to the mods for running this fest, and I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday. Enjoy all the entries!! They're seriously amazing.


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